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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26150923">your lips are maraschino cherries, just as fake, just as sweet</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaPlease/pseuds/rhys'>rhys (TeaPlease)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aged-Up Losers Club (IT), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Boy Richie Tozier, Bullying, Dark Richie Tozier, Dom/sub Undertones, Drama, Dubious Ethics, F/F, F/M, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, Jealous Richie Tozier, M/M, Mean Eddie, Mean Richie, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, abusive language, clown shenanigan puppeteering, oh since this came up, then suddenly All Burn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 12:00:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>53,758</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26150923</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaPlease/pseuds/rhys</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The disbanding of the Loser's Club is a ricochet effect and while some shed their status, Eddie is still a loser through and through-- cemented when he joins the school's drama club where he finds surprising, new talents to explore. His harassment comes in the form of Richie Tozier's insufferable cheekbones and light-switch charisma. Eddie thinks it's a well-planned prank to milk some insufferable joke. But he finds an intense amount of spotlight for someone behind the scenes. And the closer Richie gets, the hotter it burns-- to the point that the fire is sometimes all he can think about.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Beverly Marsh/Original Female Character(s), Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak &amp; Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Stanley Uris</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>61</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>113</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. how it started.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this is an idea I've been toying around with to take place in a time-weird universe. fair warning: this fic and probably other fics featuring these individuals will explore things of relational trauma, codependency, obsession, emotional manipulation, abuse in various forms, etc. not to say it'll be an entirely dark boohoo fest but there are strong aspects that will be explored that could be uncomfortable and compromising. </p><p>it will also have a few dance party scenes. maybe a beach episode?</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eddie looked at himself in the school mirror and fixed his hair with pursed lips. Mike and Bill left for volunteering, gratefully not sticking around long to see Eddie’s wrecked condition. His cheeks were still flushed from stumbling over a really, stupidly obvious grammatical error in his Writing class. One that he’d volunteered to do. Like an idiot. The reminder of probably eight minutes ago made him bodily shudder. But! There was no time to care about being an embarrassment. There were more embarrassing things to do.</p><p>Stan was waiting for him.</p><p>He just had to find room N112— not even the room, just the hallway, and things would be fine. Stan would smile at him and make him forget about being an idiot for a blissful hour. He just had to find room N112.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Being one of the very few to take ASL his junior year, Eddie existed in the interesting medium where he was known for his singularity and similarly ridiculed for it. You’d think between the less-than-subtle xenophobia his town displayed, learning <em>American</em> Sign Language (the literal patriotism in the name) would exclude him from weird taunts. But it was another flashing sign stapled to his person. The neon lights were embedded as the teen flushed hot whenever he felt a well-aimed jab land.</p><p>It bothered him more as a sophomore. Now, it just seemed rudimentary part of his day. Leave the house and walk to school by 6:50, stop by the corner store to smuggle a bag of chips into his backpack, be insulted once he rounded the corner of tall seniors hanging outside the gates, chat with Bill or Stan for six minutes, leave when the bell rang.</p><p>Simple.</p><p>Eddie didn’t mind being a loser. He couldn’t. Part of being him meant weathering the unchangeable.</p><p>He’d never be over 5’9’’.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> <br/>
</span>He wasn’t going to get his license until he was 21.<br/>
His gluten sensitivity was never going to magically disappear.<br/>
He’d <em>always</em> be Eddie “Crapstack,” the neurotic, fragile flute player (third chair, thank you.)</p><p>Which is why he was holding his head high and walking fast to meet his friend. His throat felt tight with the threat that he could bump into someone unsuitable, but Eddie had picked his path. He was going to weather the unchangeable.</p><p>How it started was with Stanley’s announcement--</p><p>talking about a new Nova broadcast- something to do with the effects of insect repellent on bird species in sub tropical environments- when his attention wavered and he smiled, waving. Bill turned and Eddie looked up to shoot a rushed ‘hello’ as he swallowed his mouthful of food.</p><p>“Mike! F-F-Finally free from M— Mrs. Toppens, huh?” Bill scooted down the bench to accommodate the new arrival with a bright smile.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah. I don’t know why she keeps us past the bell.” Eddie handed Mike his promised share of chips, which got him a grin he could feel himself blush at. “I like Ancient Greece as much as the next person but is Athens really worth the extra five minutes?”</p><p>“Nope!”</p><p>“Exactly what I’m saying.”</p><p>Stan gave Eddie a meaningful look as Bill and Mike collapsed in on each other with chuckles. That had been happening a lot, too. Stan’s looks relating to Bill and Mike’s… whatever. All he could do was shrug in return and the other boy rolled his eyes. Clearing his throat, Stan spread his hands on the table and drums lightly. “Hey, hey, hey. I have an update.”</p><p>Bill’s eyebrows shot up once he disengaged from his private Mike-bubble. The grin from his giggling shaped his sentence. “Oh, i-i-is th—I-is about operation Court Maggie—“ he squawked, avoiding Stan’s swipe with another burst of laughs. “Jesus!”</p><p>“Shut <em>up</em>. No, it’s not about <em>that</em> and there’s no operation! Nosy.” Stan sat back with a growl. Two out of commission from inability to be serious left only Eddie to entertain Stan. Which he was good at. They were good at entertaining one another.</p><p>“What is it about, then?” Stan held up a finger and then rifled through his backpack to procure some books. Since Eddie was sitting right next to him, he could read the titles as they appeared. The common bundle of bird watching guides and essays about Shakespeare for American Literature Honors, but the play motif seemed to be expanding with each new volume Stan put down.</p><p>Mike recovered enough to look perplexed but still amused as the stack steadily grew. Bill and Eddie both took from the tower to flip through the pages. “‘<em>Building Theatre Props on A Shoestring and a Prayer: How to Beat Shakespeare with Only 10 Dollars</em>'...” Eddie huffed. “Tall order. Stan, what’s going on?”</p><p>“Yeah," Bill cuts in, "w-what’s th-this g-g-going on about? ‘P-Props for Preps’? Thi-is is kinda c-co.. Cool, actually.” Bill’s tune changed once he hit an impressive spread that had Mike leaning close to ‘ooo’ with him.</p><p>Stan was smug but also sweating from the effort that came with shoveling books from his bag eight times.</p><p> </p><p>But really it began with that stupid, cheap paper when he was <strong>n</strong>ine.</p><p>There was a print journal club the sister junior high school had been trying to run for about two years now. Their first and only issue was a Halloween surprise with mystery stories published under the cellophane monickers of classmates. Eddie mindlessly scratched at his arm while he was cooped up inside of his room the evening of. Bill had left him to get more candy with Mike; Stan hadn’t been allowed out to celebrate a pagan holiday when there were more important things to worry about, like reciting verses for his cousin’s upcoming funeral.</p><p>As his mother put aside the twelfth candy bar she suspected of tampering, the antagonist in the short story had just grabbed a knife from the art piece of his New Mexico mansion.</p><p>
  <em>“After you finished with the Hasins, you looked at everything you’d done. One dead family, two maimed people— in for a penny, in for a pound.” She stared at the old man with bright and hot eyes and balled her fists at her sides before raising an arm to point. “Are you still in?”</em>
</p><p><em>“I’m in,”</em> he’d grunted before lunging at the young girl detective who’d exposed his two-month long murderous scheme.The writing was admittedly stunted. Michael McCorinthians was obviously then 7th year Michaela McCallison, who had recently won their county writing fair for some poetry. Eddie wasn’t surprised to see it’d gone to her head. But it stuck with him for some reason. He rolled the exchange over in his head when he finally snuck a Mr. Goodbar before bed.</p><p>
  <em>Richie would have been perfect for volunteer work at the local bookstore. He’d gone for Latin Drama with the story’s characters, suggestively rolling his Rs and lilting his voice dramatically, pitching it deep. It always made Eddie erupt in snorts and laughs.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Are you still in?” He shrilled and turned his head dramatically to stare at the red-faced Eddie, whose giggles were being muffled into one balled up fist.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m in.” His voice pitched as low as it could which wasn’t much for a kid. But it made Eddie laugh even then. Richie’s character only briefly cracked then as he beamed through his bug-eyed glasses and fell apart with Eddie. They mocked the stinger line; ‘I’m in’ became an eruption of giggles from them both, falling into one another with muffled cackles.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Always in that stupid voice because</em>
</p><p> </p><p>         <span class="u">when Stan said</span>—</p><p> </p><p>“It’s to help. Since I managed to get into the stage production team for drama club this year.” He delivered the news obviously waiting for fanfare. Mike’s good natured smile remained as his eyebrows came together, Bill tilting his head. Eddie’s snort was probably the lighter fluid to catch Stan’s ire. “What? What!? C’mon, that’s good!”</p><p>“Uhh… Are you <em>sure</em> this isn’t a part of Operation Court Maggie Steinback?”</p><p>“No, Mike! It isn’t!”</p><p>Eddie placed a book back on the stack. “Definitely seems like it.”</p><p>Stan crossed his arms but denied nothing. “I’m going to be creating the weapons and accessories for <em>Macbeth</em>.”</p><p>“Like, on your own?”Mike’s smile eased off the amusement and more into the genuine affection.</p><p>Stan shrugged and explained the process. The troupe (it thrilled him to say that, Eddie could tell) would work together as a collective but had individual tasks they’d be an authority on. For Stanley Uris, he accepted weaponry and jewelry, stating ‘prior knowledge.’</p><p>Eddie had to laugh this time. “’Prior knowledge?’ Paper cut-out wristbands for our Three Kings outfits don’t count! How can you count that as prior knowledge?”</p><p>The pink of Stan’s cheeks had only intensified but he looked unaffected. “Because it’s prior knowledge; they asked me if I’d done props before, I said yes. That’s prior knowledge!”</p><p>“Oh my gosh—“</p><p>Their lunch table weigh-in about what exactly qualified for theatre production lasted until the next bell. Though the table was divided on Stan’s paper crafts counting towards real skill, there had been a few seeds planted and watered in that short duration. These losers did not leave their friends to big tasks on their lonesome. Well.</p><p>In for a penny…</p><p> </p><p>So Eddie got lost, horribly lost in his daze to find a room he literally <em>never</em> heard of, <em>never </em>knew existed. He’d tried the directions for finding the North rooms like Stan mentioned but he only got himself to E209. He wasn’t late yet according to the clock hanging just above some lockers but how was he to know if the clock was even right? So started the frantic backtracking and frustrated, mumbled curses directed at his stupid, beautiful friend. Self-doubt was bordering around the edges and panic made things funny. The moment he saw the N.-initial Eddie pulled the door open with big eyes and an apology forming his lips.</p><p>Eyes immediately watering, his surprised coughs interrupted the conversation between the gang of assholes that Richie Tozier had surrounded himself with. He could hardly form the words ‘shit’ or ‘sorry’ through his hacking from the unfamiliar stench of a hotbox. Leave it to this building to have crap-piss fire alarms.</p><p>He turned to leave because it was the wrong room and he couldn’t bear it to see through the haze the stupid grin of his stupid classmate.Schoolperson.Whatever Richie was. It certainly wasn’t anything of note anymore. The stinging grip of weed wouldn’t leave his chest. It felt like it only induced his panic more. He didn’t know which scared him worse. He didn’t know why he was scared, if he should even call it fear. Fumbling with his schoolbag, Eddie’s trembling hands found his scuff-marked inhaler. It was a grounding procedure at this point more than an actual medical necessity. His panic-induced asthma made him work exactly backwards: treat panic with stabilizing force, feel attack decrease.</p><p>His chest still cramped embarrassingly once he found the right room but Stan didn’t harp on him. Sympathetically, the taller of the two took the floor to let Eddie sit in his seat. The drama instructor was discussing the Macbeth show with the actual performers but the presentation was for all of them. A girl turned off the lights so their teacher could fix the glossy sheet on the projector. They would popcorn read. Eddie felt his head swimming still as he counted the dust particles floating, as if caught, in the long yellow pillar of the project’s beams.</p><p>They swirled around uniformly. Bobbing from nothing. Eddie felt a metallic taste grow thick on his tongue because —</p><p>. <strong>w</strong>hen <strong>t</strong>hey <em>split</em>, <em>the fight between Richie and Bill couldn’t match the physical distress Eddie felt for those years after. Because they weren’t supposed to be fighting; they had just faced unspeakable evil, defeated it even, and they were fighting. It tore them apart. That distress made him feel unwhole. Bill was his best friend and for so long, was his only friend. The first person that didn’t caw at his overstuffed fannypack or stare at him every time he had to enter class late with a doctor’s note. Bill had held his hand when their school bus drove over a turtle in the road and the first person who ever met his Mom and didn’t wrinkle their nose at the overwhelming amount of powder she wore. Bill was Bill.</em></p><p>
  <em>But Richie was Richie. And when they fought, it tore Eddie in two, all of them splitting but Richie looking haunted, enraged, aghast, alone because --</em>
</p><p> </p><p>When he walked home alone, he did it fast and didn’t look around. Because if he did, he’d get caught in unfortunate spotlights. Typically those were figurative. But he squinted and then blanched as a broken-down truck rounded the corner hard and fast. It wasn’t fear of strangers that made him pale but the knowledge of someone he could barely recognize these days. Richie’s beater had its passenger window already rolled down as Eddie was met with sly smiles from its occupants. It definitely wasn’t drive-safe; way more than the regulated five person limit for such a truck were stuffed into the vehicle. More than that the passenger side looked banged up. Eddie noted with satisfied malice that Junior Brooks was shorter than he would have looked if someone hadn’t removed the front seat to make room for whatever nefarious invention.</p><p>“Hey, pretty. Looking for a John to take your time?” Eddie’s face screwed up at the nasty implications which Richie obviously delighted in. He was so… disgusting.</p><p>“You’re a pig,” he said plainly but his eyes dropped to the cement of the sidewalk too early for it to hit at any amount. He knew it when the gang laughed. He walked away as someone— maybe Harry and some girl, Eddie never knew her name— made kissy noises. His face burned as the car followed him at a creep before nastily revving and barreling down the road. It swerved at a bend to circle back around, Eddie’s startled gaze following the hollers of the other kids. Richie wiggled his fingers and made a gesture with his fingers that Eddie blinked hard to shield his brain from deciphering.</p><p>He went home carrying a bag full of prop foam, clay, and a copy of Macbeth. Richie’s a pig was a bitter mantra, panicked synonyms bouncing around. <em>Monster</em>— leech— asshole— <em>dickweed</em>— no-good— <span class="u">lousy</span>—</p><p>That’s what he did all night. Thought obsessively of what nasty things to call Richie in his head, glaring at nothing while he showered with hot cheeks, bared teeth, thinking of that fucking Richie Tozier.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> While he brushed his teeth and waited stone-faced as his Mom observed the urine in the toilet to make sure he was hydrated, pulling on itchy pajamas thinking of Richie's dry lips and the way they stretched like a pinned butterfly's wing or the nasty crease of mirth by his eyes, the mockery directed at him when there had been ages before when that smile held nothing but a warm something.</span></p><p>
  <span class="Apple-converted-space">Dreams are like memory reels of what was until the heat burns and warps smiles and soft hands into something too-bitter to bear.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>long time no authoring for me. </p><p>anyways, there are triggering aspects to this story that I want to write about and the relationship between Eddie and Richie could be seen as very problematic and it is. please do not take this work of fiction as validation for unhealthy relationships or behaviors you or someone you may know has. okay thanks. love you.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. incident i.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Eddie doesn't remember not remembering. It's embarrassing to even think about the theoretic encounters he had with Richie and how they'd made him feel.</p><p>--</p><p>flashback chapter; inc. hints of control, feederism, d/s, purging<br/>some context some fun</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eddie was all kneecaps and sweaty hands as a sophomore. Everyone expects kids to turn ‘randy’ as his mother would say, tone sour, but it felt like a constant affliction or some new sickness. The sweat that would take him when just one thought lingered too long on the small of someone’s back or the shape of someone’s body through their clothes. </p><p>Summer amplified everything. Sticky heat and shed clothes. The asphalt would burn your feet if you walked outside for even fifteen seconds; the neighborhood made a joke of it. Of course the delicate condition Eddie was in made it so that a trip outside would mean painstaking applications of sunscreen, multiple glasses of water, lectures on heat exhaustion and blindness. In private moments Eddie swore his Mother planned it all— she knew it would keep him inside; he was horrified to have to put up with any of that when there was nothing to do in the first place.</p><p>Had it not been for Bill, Eddie would have surely stagnated into nothing before exploding suddenly from frustration. But Bill was always saving Eddie. </p><p>There was this job in the papers— Derry’s Daily—  for the “Derry’s Youth Reporters” section. It consisted of a page spread where youths could write articles and reports about town. It was a contentious column; names of former reporters were now sore reminders of the many disappearances, the deaths. People considered it a curse. </p><p>Eddie saw it as a blessing. </p><p>A couple smiled at him warily through the viewfinder when he snapped their picture. His own smile must have been strange as his face pinched to squint through the camera. “Thank you,” he rushed to say with hurried laughter as the couple cooed their appreciation. The camera bag tapped against his hip once he set off again. Talking was still uncomfortable for him, being seen, but after another week with the office’s rented camera, hiding was becoming easier. He was better with his Polaroid but using a real film-and-develop did something to his head. </p><p>Again he raised the camera to his eye and squinted. The haze of tree leaves and then the sweeping blue-green-yellow as he looked across. It went suddenly white then black and Eddie nearly yelped as an out-of-focus eye stared back at his. Lowering the camera body saw Richie Tozier currently attached to Cathy Jills. Eddie was stunned, dizzy, as Richie continued to look at him as he grabbed Cathy by the back of her hair and tugged. The recent freshman giggled with an open mouth, spit trailing and breaking to land flat on her chin as Richie finally broke eye contact to kiss at her neck. </p><p>It was a scene.<br/><br/>Richie’s bruised knuckles peeped just slightly from their position under (<em>inside</em>, Eddie corrected dazed) Cathy’s shorts. One of her legs was hitched up over his lap; his denim jacket had fallen to cover what could only be something blatantly illegal for a public place. It was mid-afternoon; parents were at work, people at the arcades, the cinema, running around their own backyards. It wasn’t like the small park was much anything to sneeze at, mostly hosting older folk who had a routine of bird feeding and slow walking. Richie and Cathy weren’t exactly out in the open in the tucked away nook where the bench was but it was nothing to be described as hidden.</p><p>What could Eddie do? His legs felt locked; his breath was coming short as Richie did something with his hand that had Cathy arching back.</p><p>The hand in her hair yanked again, Eddie could tell from the jerk of her head and tense neck, and Richie was still at her neck. If there were any words to hear, Eddie couldn’t decipher them, just staring openly at the performance— because that’s what it was. </p><p>Richie knew he was there. Had him pinned. What was Eddie supposed to do? He was supposed to walk away. His head felt like it was in a fog. Distantly, Cathy murmured something in a feeble, squeaky voice and Richie finally pulled away enough to crook a grin at her. He shook his head. </p><p><em> He needs to wash his hair </em> Eddie noted duly and then snapped out of his reviere when sweat rolled down his chin. From far away, Tozier made eye-contact again, the alarming mirth and tease creasing the corners as he licked a long stripe up Cathy’s neck. His tongue flicked out at her chin where the peeping teen wiped his own drool and felt something like a moan get caught in his throat. He hiccuped a noise and then immediately ran away. </p><p>Eight pictures turned out overdeveloped when Eddie finally got them out of their water rinse. His timing had been off, mind elsewhere as he messed up the counts for each timed process. In the darkroom it was like every shadow was an embodiment of the moment as the sun caught the oil-slick of Richie’s hair, the curve of his overly large glasses as a strawberry pink tongue slit its way up brown skin. Even closing his eyes was like flash bangs of sensory overload.</p><p>Eddie felt like dunking his head into one of the chemical basins like it could flow into his ears and down his spinal cord to over process the pictures — no stop bath, just the burning and darkening of every shape, the heavy contrast until nothing was discernible. Then he’d put it in fixer so long that the light would stain it all over. Until he couldn’t make out the memories. It plagued him as he roller-skated home, remembering the way Richie’s knuckles jumped, the way Cathy’s head had gone back and the brief expression of pain that furrowed her eyebrows. Even with the window open his room felt too hot. So stuffy. His shorts were the same length as hers, same color. Eddie pulled one film reel in a memory to play as his legs tangled with Richie’s and the spectacled boy’s hand pushed under his pants to tickle him.</p><p>
  <em> “Stop!” he screeched, flailing haphazardly as Richie tried to pin his other hand. He couldn’t kick and only squirmed. It was to the point of pain that he laughed and bucked. Richie had only held down harder, bearing down, until Eddie begged for an inhaler.   </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Oh! Oh, I’m sorry, shit, I’m sorry!” Then almost instantly relief.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It was in the way that Richie held him as he greedily recovered his breath; an instantaneous obey and concern as the kid’s smile eased on the torture and into the concerned, the guilty. Eddie didn’t know if he’d actually needed an inhaler that time but it gave him tingles to know he could make Richie feel bad. Make him do things. He squashed Richie’s cheeks between his hands and watched the too-big glasses go askew, and Richie just took it. He let Eddie do whatever he wanted to him. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>A shadow compromised his shot of the jukebox playing something by Peggy Lee, saying slyly, “Well if it’s not a regular Spiderman at our very own Derry’s Dine-in.” Eddie wished he could yell but just slowly turned around to face Richie’s lazy smile. He felt a new rush of goosebumps pebble his skin under the polo he wore and hoped his nipples weren’t a visible target for anyone’s gaze. Untying the sweater from around his waist, the teen grimaced at the taller saboteur. </p><p>“What do you want?” he said maybe too sharply, too fast, and all it did was make Richie’s grin spread even farther. </p><p>“I’ve got a big appetite. Some would say insatiable. Think you can fill my booth seat.” It irritated Eddie how it could have been a question or just a simple observation, like Richie was stating a fact. </p><p>Riding that fresh wave of anger had Eddie’s lip twitching. “No, I think I’ll be fine.” He made to leave but didn’t know how to exit a relatively small diner with bravado and dignity. The half-second of stutter step had Richie grabbing the strap of his camera bag and tugging, <em> hard. </em> The move easily made Eddie stumble and whirl to hiss, “Don’t fucking <em> do that </em>, Richie!” </p><p>Definitely too sharp. The sidelong glances from a nearby table had Eddie reddened as he looked at the still grinning Rich.</p><p>“Then come eat with me.”</p><p>“I don’t want to, are you not unders--”</p><p>“Eds, listen.” Richie leaned forward just enough to make Eddie aware of how very different their heights were becoming. By the end of 8th grade Richie was already on his way to stacking past Mike but now his spindly limbs and length were beginning to shift into something more dangerous and attractive. His denim jacket looked more filled with each sighting. It made Eddie stand with a caught breath, halfway between something snide as Richie continued. </p><p>“You’re going to go over there and eat some food with me. Alright? I’ll even pay.” His eyes slid down Eddie’s chest and went further. “I don’t know what they’re feeding you on your ‘youth freelancer’ budget but I’ll comp the costs. How’s that sound?” Before he could say anything, Richie growled, “great” and took his arm.</p><p>He followed. Why pick a fight in the middle of a diner when Richie suddenly had much more mass on him, more inches, more power-- Eddie let himself be guided to a booth near the restroom with the window starting right behind Richie’s head. It gave him an unfitting halo. </p><p>Eddie’s eyes dropped to the sticky table. Someone’s pop had spilled to be mopped up with little care. He felt the bubbles bursting in his lungs just like the lost fizzy drink as a waitress came over to get them started. </p><p>“Hi folks, welcome to Derry’s Dine-In! We have the highest quality food and service in Derry’s district, so good you’ll never want to check out!” Eddie gave a compulsory half-laugh and thanked her for the menus. “Well, I’m Samantha and I’ll be serving you two gentleman. What can I get you started with?” she said cheerily, eyes bouncing with maybe notable worry between the two of them. The situation was still so weird that Eddie’s brain was processing slowly the words and their meanings in relation to food consumption. </p><p>Richie went first. “I’ll have a large cheeseburger, all the fixings, with some hash browns for the table and a large milkshake.” Samantha was dutifully writing it down and her eyes expectantly went to Eddie, who swallowed hard to order-- </p><p>“And he’ll get the banana float, strawberry and chocolate ice cream, and a slice of your apple pie.” </p><p>Samantha’s attention snapped away and she beamed, collecting their menus from a smiling Richie and a dumbfounded Eddie. “Okay, peachy! I’ll get those started right on in for you both and be out with drinks shortly.” </p><p>She took just a few steps when Eddie leaned forward. “Richie, seriously? Don’t order for me.” His tone should have been angry, he <em> was </em> angry, but the pleading note --</p><p>He felt his cheeks begin to <em> radiate </em> as Richie’s mouth curled like he was going to burst into peals of laughter. But it died midway, stayed stuck in the transitory state. “Were you going to get something different.” Richie didn’t make it a question when he knew the answer. Eddie would have loved to argue but he didn’t. He just stared with as much venom as he could procure and let Samantha put their orders down within the passing time.</p><p>Richie didn’t really talk to him; that was fine, any conversation would have increased Eddie’s ire. Instead he watched the slighter of the two and prodded him whenever Eddie paused to stop. His presence was overbearing. He waited and watched, not touching the majority of his meal except to slowly eat fries. </p><p>Eddie didn’t want to ask. He just ate. He wanted to be gone and he stopped when his apple slice was half eaten and the banana float began to become more pool than solid. “I’m done. I--”</p><p>“You’re not.”</p><p>His eyebrows knit at the curt response. “What?”</p><p>Richie lifted his own brow and ate another fry. “You’re not done. Keep eating.”</p><p>“No, I’m <em> full </em>--”</p><p>“Finish the food, Eddie. You need the sugar, running around like that.”</p><p>Eddie felt the poison gather at the tip of his tongue again as he lifted another fork of pie into his mouth. “No I don’t, stop lecturing me.”</p><p>“Just keep eating.” Richie leaned back with a gaze that made Eddie drop his own, furious, going fast to shovel the rest of the sweet mass into his mouth. The pie had cooled and the ice cream’s melted state made combining the slice and scoops a weird mess. Eddie cringed at the inevitable mess but would rather make progress than risk looking at Richie again. From his lowered gaze, he could see the triangle of Richie’s torso and crossed arms-- relaxed and staring. It kept him hot, the attention, a wash of cold and hot creating a sickening and constant prickling of goosebumps. He felt sick eating so much. Disgusting and wrong knowing that so many carbs and fats entering his body could lead to any host of new illnesses to compromise his state. Sure, his metabolism showed no inclinations of stopping-- Eddie only held the barest piece of chub on his waist as a child (<em>a</em><em> present from Richie, always bringing in snacks, hosting him at his house, for lunch, the corner store, any passing by vendor, sharing his sandwich, getting him shakes, nurturing the fat with pinches and grabs that sent Eddie <span class="u">squealing</span> away <strike>embarrassed</strike></em>) </p><p> </p><p>But he wasn’t a child. This amount of food made him want to use the patented emergency evacuation system. The procedure included his head and a toilet.</p><p>Just the thought made him nauseous and he finally had to look up at Richie, feeling a strange blur at the corner of his head. “I’m done. I’m full, I can’t eat anymore.” Even as he spoke the other teen shook his head and it sent him into another whinging tone. “Richie, come on, I seriously can’t, this is too much, I swear I can’t eat anymgr--” he hurriedly swallowed as another fork of pie was shoved into his mouth. Richie pressed the fork to his lips as Eddie felt himself nearly gag.</p><p>“C’mon. Just finish it. Look, sweetheart, you’re almost done--” Eddie opened his mouth once he swallowed the thick cream from RIchie’s straw with a grimace. “Look at that. Look how well you’re getting that down. Clean the rest up. Here, open again, you’re almost done.” Eddie ate the proffered ice cream. “There you go. Doing good. Do you need me to keep this up so you can finish?”  Eddie watched Rich’s tongue swipe over his bottom lip. “Need me for this?”</p><p>Eddie turned his head away and the fork’s teeth scraped his cheek, dragged across and as he protested, shoved into his mouth. There wasn’t anything to do <em> but </em> swallow. He looked at his ex-friend totally lost as he swallowed the sugared clump of the remains of pie. </p><p>He felt disgusting. But Richie’s gaze held him with something like a scary fervor. Pinned with that same overwhelming pressure that made it feel like he’d explode, like he’d vomit--</p><p>The thought pattern led him to a stumbling path out of the booth and away. He heard Richie call for him and thoughts screamed for him to assert himself, pay his portion, apologise, stop walking, that he couldn’t walk, that he needed to just bend over some raised surface and fucking explode but he pushed the diner’s door open and left back into the heat. Eddie was clammy and the daze that had obfuscated normal cognition while force-feeding-himself-via-Richie-influenced made stumbling anywhere drastically difficult. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know how. How he got to sit with Richie in that diner, how he even managed to basically scrape his plate clean, how he got home to collapse somewhere on the floor of his bathroom clutching the toilet and how he forced himself to keep it down. It shook him that entire experience. </p><p>But it was Summer. </p><p>And he was young. </p><p>A year younger from now, a junior in high school. Thankfully weathering Tozier was easy. He existed on the fringe of Eddie’s life and only appeared with his gang and their taunts. No personal close-calls. Eddie may have hated the new Trashmouth but at least he walked around with the entire landfill. Dealing with him on his own was more foreboding; walking in a hazmat suit on a place so obviously infested was a bit better than having a dumpster full of rabid raccoons lingering too close all the time. </p><p>Memory reels could be kept in their dark rooms. Eddie could control his thoughts a little better now. Didn’t need to think about Richie. Tried not to and had a high pass rate for achieving just that goal. But something nagged at him when the tall stranger’s eyes settled on him, the stranger that took his friend. It was always too calm and that was a signal to anyone who knew anything about Rich that a storm was building. A plot or plan. Some hell to rain down. But Eddie didn’t need to worry. </p><p>He didn’t owe that piece of shit anything beside a scorned glance and the spray of dust as he rollerskated home. RIchie Tozier didn’t have shit on him. Eddie had to believe in that assertion because any alternative made the sudden urge to gag kick him in the stomach. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>this chapter is dedicated to the best MVP, WaywardArrowGurl76, who called me out for being a himbo (guilty as charged) because my mind said 'richie-luxury-evil-rich = Moschino" and not like, the name, of the, y'know, specific food I was talking about.</p><p>literally life saver.</p><p>anyways, hope you guys like this. I liked this.</p><p>thanks, love you, bye</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. stranger danger</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Stan and Eddie have a heterosexual time working on stuff. <br/>Eddie tried to learn the merits of enjoying one's own company but will have to return to such a lesson at a later date. </p><p>inc: mention of bestiality; targeted slurs; dickhead richie</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Bev left a parcel in the bushes by his house when she left town. There were different odds and ends for crafts, cute paper spreads for scrapbooks, stickers, sewing stuff with the needles wrapped in a colorful rubber band. It included spray paint and a gigantic bag of so many different kinds of buttons that Eddie wondered how she’d even amassed them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The whole thing had the stale smell of cigarette smoke. It took at least a week of constantly sneaking into the perfumed interior of his Mother’s restroom or sneaking barely working eau de toilettes before the stench let up. He read her letter, the hardest thing to get the smell out of, twice a week for the last half of sophomore year. It was like another piece of solace had been rudely yanked from him but Eddie had no choice but to let go. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least things came in handy now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan approached him before class shortly after the first drama meeting, Eddie fixing something in his locker before noticing him. “Oh, hey.” His greeting was stilted as he yanked some papers from a corner they’d gotten caught in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Leaning over his shoulder, Stan joked. “Need some help?” His smile was good-natured as he was shoved and with a hand on his backpack, Stan continued. “I was wondering if you wanted to meet by the baseball field after class today. We can get working with that spraypaint you have. Since it’s important to do it in ventilated areas.” The last sentence was added lightly as a reference to the tirade Eddie went on at lunch three days ago, prompted by a poor suggestion from Mike. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, that sounds good to me. I don’t think they’re having practice today,” Eddie replied as he smiled up at Stan. He noticed faintly that his hair was getting darker the older they got. Stan nodded and paused awkwardly before speaking again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wo…ould— you want to come over after we do the spray paint and work on it a little more?” Eddie’s expression must have shifted because he hurriedly continued. “Or we can just do homework out there or something. It’s just, we’ll be around each other already.” He was faintly pinkened. “So doing some more work on it or something else would be logistically sound.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie grinned and nodded his agreement. “For sure. I can probably stay for a bit, help you with actually starting your Biology project,” he rejoined quietly and Stan did another sharp nod. Then took a step, stopped and looked down again with a warm laugh. The other snickered. “Because I know you’ve barely looked at it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Guilty.” Stan lingered with the remainder of his laugh making him look softened, sweet. They were probably both a little pink by now and just smiling at each other. “Well, I’ll see you then.” With that, he set off and Eddie watched him with a lingering tingle that followed him into his language class. ASL was fun to learn but he would be lying if his mind wasn’t occupied with the shortly approaching future.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Recently, their separate schedules had made group meetings a little more sparse. Often they had to pair off and things were always easy with Stan. And even though they might not have Bill’s deft hand with paper, they’d already made a ton of mockups and sketches for the play. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hallways were full with people heading for the bus line and car park. Eddie weaved around the bodies and went for his locker, juggling some books precariously as he hastily tugged a bag free. It rattled as it went and Eddie managed to put hold it and finagle his flute case under his armpit before leaning forward to let the other books thump in a heap. Free to adjust things as needed, the young man locked up and headed the opposite way of the wave for the fields.  It was getting to be that perfect temperature in Derry. Just heading into the thick of Fall, the sun still out but the wind picking up to create a perfectly temperate environment. He wanted to embroider something on one of the pockets of his overalls before he got into the habit of wearing them again. It was on his list of to-dos.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spotting his friend crouched down on the cement slab near the dugout, Eddie hastened to jog across the field. It was easy to hear him with his clinking cans and shaking book bag and hard plastic flute case but Stan’s pleasant surprise seemed to be mandatory. Which was weird because Eddie said he was going to come, didn’t he?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sliding the bag from around his shoulder, the shorter teen huffed through light pants. “So there’s red, brown and um, green and black. The green’s a little weird though. It comes out weird, I mean.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand as Stan pulled out the pieces they’d worked on: dried clay chains; bracelets; spheres and flat balls for emeralds; the foam they’d cut and torn at to create an approximate shape of a sword (Stan went in with a bit to create the divot in the middle and they’d foregone making the actual butt of the blade.) It was a small start but having something for the next club meeting was better than nothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie produced the cans of spray paint and then face masks. Stan looked like he wanted to laugh but instead gingerly accepted the one Eddie shoved his way, smiling indulgently as he got it over his head and secured it around his nose and mouth. The cement slab already had the distinct edges and scattered spray from former artistry so adding their own touch wasn’t against the rules. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Spray painting went well. There were two times where they almost got into a playful scuffle, Stan aiming the can at Eddie just to see him yelp and curse at him. They talked through it— Eddie directing Stan to keep a distance from what he sprayed, using pieces of paper or discarded notes to try and create some effects. It was he who had the bright idea of diffusing the spray paint through worn out notebook paper to speckle portions with a light, spotty coat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn't work much but it was an attempt. Attempts counted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mandatory break! We’ve been doing this for half-past now,” Eddie declared as he backed away from their progress. His face was red as he lowered the mask and wiped the sweat that beaded around his top lip. Stan capped the spray bottles he’d dropped and lined them up neatly before joining him on the grass. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quiet, the two observed their progress. Eddie felt his fingers brushing Stan’s on the grass,  felt itchy all over, a buzz. Usually dressed fastidiously, Stan’s shirt rode up enough— tucked at the start of the day, half out by lunch, relaxed near school’s end. Stan’s hair got darker as he got older but the hint of hair around his navel was incredibly light. It was nearly translucent in the late afternoon sun. Like Bev’s hair. Eddie felt Stan turning and his eyes snapped up to meet the focused look of his friend. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There had been a lot of looks lately. He felt the need to index every look, all of their meanings, but they were far beyond him. They could only be described in the way they made him feel and Eddie felt, buzzy. “Hi,” he murmured with a loss for much else to say. Stan’s smile made his ears hot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie looked back at their prop-work. “I think we did good. They look pretty nice.” He felt Stan take his hand and forced himself not to react, to act casual, as the other played with his fingers. “How many pieces do we have to make again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Way more jewelry annnnnnd ten swords.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Goddamn.” He laughed a little and looked back at Stan, mouth feeling dry. “Well, at least that’s a start! Want to-- We can head back to your place?” At the other’s affirmative, Eddie felt himself follow as Stan stood— and just stood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were there for a beat where neither made move to return to their workstation. Stan had this serene smile that had Eddie’s throat hurt. But his senses went on the high alert and he looked past Stan as he heard the cough of someone’s engine lumbering nearby. The break in attention let Stan slip away, hand lingering just a moment before he went to go collect their things. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie stared over the yards separating the end of the baseball field and the carpark. He felt like something stared back. It made his skin react in a strange blast of hot and cold, tightening and warming. With a grimace, he finally left his spot to help Stan and get to walking back to his place. Thoughts were battling for his attention as Stan discussed a new book he’d been looking at lately. Feeling Stan’s hands play with his own, the contrast between dark hair and ginger wisps, cigarette smoke denim jackets, oil heavy hair and chapped lips, the way the pink formed around a blunt, and when he was held firm by his backpack strap, it jerked him hard out of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swallowed as Richie looked at them from the driver’s seat. There was Harry again and the pale girl Eddie still didn’t know the name of. “I heard it’s dangerous for sissies to walk home late,” the girl said to the car and they laughed in full except for Rich. His eyes bored into Eddie and he only smiled in that lazy way and raised his shoulders, dropped them, in an empty imitation of a laugh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Didn’t know you tag-teamed now.” Richie leaned forward to look back at Stan, who still held Eddie’s bag. “The Johns want something kosher on the menu, huh? Something lean and non-offensive.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry got a kick out of that and Stan set his jaw. Eddie sneered. “Don’t you have something better to do? Maybe you and your friends can give someone a venereal disease together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It landed on Richie and the girl, but it seemed like Harry had a confusing time, looking over his seat to someone the dirty window covered in the back to ask what the hell that was. Eddie took the moment to reach back and take the hand on his backpack, tugging Stan along. Of course Richie followed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you crazy kids want a ride home? Maybe you’re actually street prowling-- gonna try and visit the park, see who you can pick up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up, Richie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you should appreciate my business advice.” Richie tilted his head. “Can market yourselves as the little sissy pair, kosher and spiced meat-- get spitroasted you were a kebab.” His grin was lascivious and Eddie balked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck you, Rich,” Stan mumbled. That got Richie to slide his attention to him and stop the car with a mirthless chuckle. Eddie and Stan kept walking, the latter speeding up some to walk side-by-side. “What a fucking dick. Like what he’s done isn’t enough-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s not talk about him.” He felt the other boy glance at him then look away quickly. The house wasn’t a short walk but not necessarily long. Eddie felt nervous because Richie was Richie, and a stopped car was the same as a blank expression, a quiet grin. He didn’t like it. Stan was taller so his legs could keep up with the slowly quickening stride and he didn’t comment on the change of pace. They heard the car door open and then close, the engine still quietly rumbling but no sound of movement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything told him not to, but he looked back as RIchie Tozier watched them leave along the sidewalk. Eddie looked away fast and tried to breathe normally because these were cheap intimidating tactics. Richie wasn’t half the enforcer Henry Bowers had been but he had to have been twice as crazy with a longer rope to burn. He hoped they hotboxed the car so their shitty pot habit could defuse what he knew as a building temper.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan liked Eddie existing in his space. Eddie liked to touch and prod and investigate but never forced disarray. Their neat, twitchy habits lined up well and Eddie always paid mind to put things back as they saw them or let Stan work through a bout of tics that had muscles in his forehead flutter. He used the phone they had by their kitchen to tell his Mom where he was, promised he would be back home before 8:45, and proceeded with the evening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His shoes were off and he was leaning against the headboard of Stan’s bed, writing down definitions on flashcards as the other worked on a poster board at his desk. He leaned back and had to have audibly yawned for Stan to pause in his own work, asking, “Are you getting tired?” When Eddie shook his head, he shrugged and then looked at the clock somewhere up above a bookcase. “It is getting late.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’d been working steadily and taking breaks to goof around. The book Stan had sat to show him- a large volume of highly detailed finch drawings and descriptions- sat near his foot and Eddie was careful to avoid it as he stretched. “I guess I am a little tired. I should start getting back, but as slowly as possible because it’s probably… cabbage night or something. It’s Thursday right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Definitely Thursday.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fucking cabbage,” Eddie groaned as he exaggeratedly fell back to his once limp position. Stan laughed and the two grinned at each other. “Yeah. I’ll get going.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re going to have to get up for that, Sleeping Beauty. Need any help?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For some reason the remark made Eddie blush and he hoped Stan didn’t see it, beginning to get up in earnest now/ “I’m an almost fully-grown semi-adult human male, thank you very much,” the teen huffed as he smoothed out Stan’s sheets. “And as such, I’ll get to heading home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan sighed from his seat and got up, turning at his waist as he walked with Eddie to collect his things. Once he said his goodbyes and accepted hugs from Stan’s parents, the aforementioned kid walked him to the exit. “You’re welcome to live here and help me pass all my classes if you like. You know my parents probably wouldn’t mind,” he said quietly, fixing Eddie’s hair a little before shoving a hand into his pocket then letting it lay limp at his side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smaller boy just fixed him with a rueful grin. “Not for fucking free, that’s for sure. That’s such a scam.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll pay you in room and board, really good meals. Maybe fishing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie rolled his eyes. “Work out a better agreement and a proposed itinerary of my exact payment. Then, I’ll wait a little longer before I say no.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan rubbed his neck with a nod. “That’s fair. Can I at least pitch you while I walk you home?” The request took Eddie by surprise just a little, but it was late-- and Stan was always looking out for him, always being old-fashioned in his chilvay. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie paused and in the medium of dead air, Stan looked confused. Then, cheekily, Eddie grinned. “Nope.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Screw you, Kaspbrak.” He opened the door and quickly leaned forward to hug Eddie with his free arm. It was returned after a brief laugh. The two pulled away and Stan looked abashed. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Eddie replied dumbly and then mirrored Stan’s own bashful expression. “I’ll see you. Have a good rest of your night-- make sure to tell me how about your progress on Bio,” he emphasised before heading down Stan’s steps and out past the driveway. The teen stood on the front porch until Eddie turned back to wave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door finally closed when the shorter male was out past the trees. He was reminded of how nice a skate would have been in the darkening hours. Faster and definitely whipped up cool air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he had to gauge it, Eddie left around 8:15 and the walk home wouldn’t be long. The sky went pitch alarmingly fast but this was a neighborhood he knew. No fear had to be put into being snatched anymore. Yes, Eddie still looked young and lean, short stature and wide eyes stripping away years he’d accumulated. But he carried himself like a young man. Like an almost senior which would be one step away from college and college held adults; individuals training for their life-long careers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t need to be scared anymore but almost choked on a scream when someone distantly said, “Hey, stranger.” Whirling, the headlights hit him again, eyes wincing closed as someone approached. Eddie instinctively turned to run but the bog of his backpack, flute case, and craft supplies made him stumble off-balance. The mean laugh made him go red instead of pale and he felt his mouth open wide.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s your </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking</span>
  </em>
  <span> damage, Richie? Jesus Christ, are you trying to fucking blind me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie was close enough now that headlights gave him a hard outline, features still mostly shadowed. “I’m a good samaritan on this neighborhood watch business. And kids shouldn’t be walking home alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not a child,” he spat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie didn’t acknowledge him. “Heard there was a break-in off the street near your corner store. Don’t you pass by there to get home?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That had Eddie hesitating. It was on the opposite street and if Richie heard, then surely the police would be heading that way. His expression was still guarded. “It’s not like I walk on that street to go home, I’m on the opposite side. What does that have to do with anything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie smiled. “Lemme take you home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking between danger number one and death trap number two, Eddie let out a mirthless laugh. “Are you serious?” Richie’s smile dipped into a flat line and he continued. “I’m not getting in that hunker-fuckin-punkered thing. It’s a moving casket and you’re a goddamn cryptkeeper. No way!” His tone was amazed, past bemused and into incredulous as he turned, eyes burning from the headlights. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie’s footsteps were quiet and strides long, holding Eddie’s arm tight and wrenching it back. It strained painfully and Eddie nearly yowled, handing coming up to shove at the man accosting him but Richie leaned in close ignoring it. “Don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>treat</span>
  </em>
  <span> me like garbage, Eddie. I’m trying to do you a favor and you fucking run your mouth?” Eddie gasped, ‘sorry, I’m sorry’ and Richie clicked his tongue. “Sorry, sure; you know what, I should let your scraggly behind walk around here and get pinned down and fucked by some robber, maybe even a wild police dog; get his doggy knot in between your ass.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie felt nausea washing over him. “God, Jesus Richie that’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>disgusting</span>
  </em>
  <span>, just let me-- owowowow! Okayow, let me go!” Finally after a twisted grip, Richie pulled him back and the younger spun pathetically before feeling himself carted over to the waiting truck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just get in. You’re almost falling over yourself, how would you even get home without falling and knocking all your precious baby teeth out?” Pulling the driver door open, Richie guided (pushed) Eddie in and instructed, “Crawl over the beers and sit on that little piece of seat. Remember to use your buckle.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Being inside of the truck was disgusting. It smelt stale and the backseat </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> a piece of cushion and padding, the bottom carved out and pulled back as a makeshift cubby for what had to have been weed. Richie got in as Eddie tried to fumble his things into order. His arm still felt awful from the rough handling and Richie’s hard look as he struggled with the buckle made his hands sweaty. He relented as the driver took it from him and let the buckle release, pulling it in to stretch over Eddie safely and securing it. “Hands and feet inside the ride at all times, no pictures.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a pout, the flutist mumbled ‘not funny’ and let himself be driven home in the coughing, growling beat-up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a quiet drive. Eddie kept his eyes off of Richie as much as possible and tried to stay still, not wanting to avoid the barest comfort the seat afforded him. Once they’d turned past the highschool he cleared his throat. “Don’t drop me right in front. I can walk the rest of the way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie twitched. It was scary how visible it was. “Okay, celebrity. What am I, chauffeuring the rich and the famous? Mom still scared to see the monster cock that destroyed--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my God, please, please, stop.” He knew the other teen took pleasure in seeing his curdled expression but when the time arrived, pulled up short at the beginning of the street before they hit his house. Eddie sat there with pursed lips before quickly looking at the other. “Thanks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>RIchie leaned forward until his arms rested on his wheel. “You can do better than that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grit teeth. “Thank you, Richie. I really appreciate you driving me home.” That earned him a pinch to his arm and Eddie yelped again, making to move away before his arm was caught </span>
  <em>
    <span>again</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It had to have been near the same spot because the pressure killed him. He sucked in a breath, Richie noticing but not letting up on holding his arm as he pulled so Eddie was bent to lean over the console. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When I stick my neck out for you, don’t act like I’m not worth your breath.” He was quiet and it made Eddie sweat. “I did a nice fucking thing. You’re home before curfew, you’re not hurt. Right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes RIchie,” Eddie meekly replied.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Exactly. So remember the shit I do for you before you open your mouth. And if punk-ass Uris opens his mouth at me like he did, I’ll throttle him.” His eyes widened as the other continued. “You keep that between you and me, okay, Ed-baby?”  The grip intensified until Eddie winced. “Okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, okay, Richie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie smiled and nodded. “Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His grip did soften and he sympathetically rubbed Eddie’s arm, touch suddenly so tender that the whiplash made Eddie stay uncomfortably bent to relish in it. So close to the driver’s side, he could see the build-up of cigarette butts in the little pocket near the window crank. Rich smelled like pot and something sour-- maybe a lemon-lime slushie. Eddie let himself slowly lean back, testing to see if his movements would be stopped, but they weren’t. Gathering his tings, he opened the door and stopped with a click of Richie’s tongue. Looking back slowly, the other boy looked casually on. “I’m a big fan, Eds. I’ll try and be as supportive and engaged as possible in your creative pursuits.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It came out of nowhere and Eddie’s confusion made Richie laugh. Genuinely laugh, a giggle and a snort, that only furthered the confusing sensations, thoughts and feelings that created an overlay of the boy he had once thought nothing could rip him away from. “... Have a good night, Richie,” he replied lamely before closing the door and walking away. He heard Richie's laugh, the 'how <em>polite</em>,' and ignored it with a burning expression.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The truck stayed briefly before its tell-tale rattling and coughing indicated its turn. The roar through the neighborhood would have definitely pulled the attention of other families living nearby; it was out of character to hear something like that around this time. Eddie tried to sprint to his doorstep and create some form of distance from the correlation of he and that awful truck, entering home to receive his mother’s chiding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Night passed by in a blur. Eddie washed carefully around where Richie grabbed him, looking elsewhere in the shower as he tried to force anger. It was a sputtering lighter-- no heat to keep the flame and he went to bed with wet hair (something his Mother swore would give him pneumonia) and thoughts bumping into one another in his shockingly empty head.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>she's a little longer. tell me if this was meandering or not, a chore to get through; totally open to the critique. also there's no beta because as an ALPHA only IIIIII run these *fuckin streets* anyways that bit is over, that's just my way of saying tell me when I make mistakes.</p><p>comments appreciated, kudos always amaze me.<br/>thanks, love you, bye.</p><p>xo</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. incident ii.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>forgiving and forgetting has a time limit<br/>feat. crafts and laughs</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>One time Beverly told him she liked him a lot because he was the most non-threatening man she’d ever met. That she felt an instinctual pull to just take his hand and pet his hair. Eddie had blushed without knowing what to say and it only made the girl lunge forward to giggle and grape with him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was lucky to have Bev. She was like what he thought an older sister could be, the perfect and best kind, rambunctious and mischievous but so full of care and empathy that to simply be in her presence was like a bandaid on a bad day. She was also his biggest critic. Beverly was the first person to tell him his organs would fall out if he ever tried to do a self-stitch on his own because his methods were weak, </span>
  <em>
    <span>at best</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Protests and horror didn’t change her apt opinion. It was hard to tell her she was wrong, because usually, she was right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know Richie still really likes you, right?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was doing a backstitch on a pair of his shorts and made a snorting noise. Looping the needle and thread under and over, he finally allowed himself to look up once he’d gotten into a steady repetition. “The last time he liked me was when I did his English homework for the entire year,” the younger snorted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bev was by the window to vent out her cigarette smoke. She grinned as she pulled then crooked her head over to exhale, snickering. “No, beyond that, Eddie, you know what I mean? Richie cares about you a lot.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She ashed. Drew her legs up on the seat to give him a look. The barest bit of breeze pushed around pinned down papers and dust, her red hair caught in this camera filter of too bright and muted by the atmosphere. She was always searching, eyes probing, and often found what she wanted. Like when he’d visited her after the first day of class all those months ago and all she had to do was stare and frown for Eddie to burst into tears about how scared he was of being a fucking freshman all over again. How she plucked three chords to get him to admit he didn’t know if he could pass Algebra just a few months later, and now, a month after that, here they were— like she knew everything she needed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie sighed and flipped his pants over to observe the hem. It was fine. Tying the stitch off, he averted his attention from Beverly’s intensity. “Have you talked to him recently?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, we hung out a little last week.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But not for long though, right?” Eddie worked at cleaning up his threads in the short silence that followed and finally looked back up at the less vibrant Bev. “Because he’s fuck all who knows where most of the time, right?” Bitterness was leaking in and she didn’t deserve his poison- Bev didn’t deserve to put up with anyone’s negativity- but again she shook her head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know he’s been getting up with some weirdos-“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Understatement.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But he’s still </span>
  <em>
    <span>Richie</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” she completed, sighing. “He’s still the same Trashmouth who loves us, he really does, he’s just— you know things have been difficult for everyone. I can’t even mention Bill without him shutting everything down so I don’t, but you know he’s just been so hurt-“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How is that an excuse for him being a dickhead? Hanging </span>
  <em>
    <span>out</span>
  </em>
  <span> with those creeps who probably casually talk about, I don’t know, killing birds for fun!” Beverly’s scoff only egged him on more and Eddie was careful to mind the pincushion as he gesticulated. “It’s insane, Bev! It’s fucking insane; he doesn’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>talk</span>
  </em>
  <span> to me anymore unless it’s to dole out some stupid comment—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you know how he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span>-“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not 'still Richie' to me!” Eddie’s voice had raised and he immediately groveled at Beverly’s hurt. “And he probably feels the same about me, about most of us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s just lost right now. He keeps an eye out for you, for us.” Her tone hardened. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t give in to the desire to roll his eyes but just folded up his shorts. Obviously Bev was going to stick up for Richie and obviously Eddie should be glad they could even hang out for this long in semi-peace. After the splintering, Bev barely saw anyone anymore- especially since she’d refused to return to regular classes. Crouched out in some woman’s modified trailer, Bev was tight-lipped about what </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly</span>
  </em>
  <span> she was doing. Eddie didn’t press her; if anyone could work any situation, could preserve in any environment, it was Marsh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He still missed walking her to detention, though. He missed meeting her at the cornerstone with Ben and Stan to giggle around aisles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie knew he put a high value on education. For him, it was the only way to get out of this town and make an actual worthwhile existence out of what felt like moments of happiness sprinkled in molasses-thick misery. Beverly was different— it seemed like the break allowed her to thrive as her existence went under the radar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was lucky to have insider knowledge. To even be around her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She left the room to go and fetch them food. It was faint but Edd could hear snippets of chuckles and questions from the exchange she was having with the woman who owned the trailer. Which was an entirely different subject that he couldn’t think about too hard or his stomach would get to churning. He didn’t understand exactly what was going on— obviously feared the worst, that Bev was in some illicit relationship with this grown </span>
  <em>
    <span>woman</span>
  </em>
  <span>, this real-life lady who Eddie didn’t know the age of but she was taller than him, not nearly as old as his mother but still screamed maturity; there were goddamn tax return forms on one corner of a rickety table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were practically in podunk central, a nearly 45-minute skate just from the high school. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bev was like Richie but with more impulse control. Which isn’t much compared to someone who had zero. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As a Richie advocate, Bev would always return to the love she had for her best friend. The extent of their closeness made Eddie’s insides clench painfully; she actually managed to get him to hangout with her, to shoot the shit somewhere when Eddie received scorn, taunts and looks. </span>
</p><p><span>She wanted him to confess he missed him. Play message courier, rebuild things, stitch together something but it was too frayed and </span><em><span>beside</span></em><span>, Eddie thought angrily, Richie was the one that was making everything </span><em><span>worse</span></em><span>. He made a tear into a rip, then a split, raking claws through the entire work of their relationship and destroying a long-established pattern. It wasn’t like they were the ones bullying him. He</span> <span>made them have to ostracize him. </span></p><p>
  <span>It was bullshit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right now, if Eddie could, he’d be with Bev at Richie’s place. Maybe even the movies to catch a five dollar trashy creature feature. They’d be eating cucumber sandwiches. And it always went like that, with Bev and Richie launching into some preposterous argument about a hypothetical what-have-you with their mouths full. Bev would be gregarious, never able to keep a straight face while Richie baited her with increasingly horrible puns. His arm would be loosely draped around Eddie’s hip and if the boy squirmed, Rich would tighten his grip just a little and squeeze. At intervals of heated banter there would be a hand that would drop down. Despite all of his Mother’s warnings, or because of, Eddie would lean forward to bite where Richie’s mouth had been on the sandwich-- usually two bites before the hand rose back up. Richie’s fingers would tickle under Eddie’s shirt as their friend spoke about which head of which person she wanted to bash in that day or when the film caught their attention enough to keep them quiet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> And that would be what passed as a perfectly fine time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But no. Richie was probably with some girl or something, cuddled up in his stupid awful stinky truck, having his  disgusting friends egg-on the beginnings of a gangbang. Just thinking that made Eddie pull away from any previous sorrows and remember </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span> he was crouched in a random woman’s car, why he was sewing his pants back up, with Bev.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Beverly came back with pigs in a blanket, Eddie said that eating too many of these things wrapped in their plastics and fats could lead to a clogging of the arteries </span>
  <em>
    <span>easy</span>
  </em>
  <span>. His startled laugh when his friend proceeded to toss six steaming swathes into her mouth almost made him slam his hand into the innocuous pincushion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unfortunately, he should have known a demon’s name called more than thrice would summon them at an inopportune moment.  Eddie tried not to think about the conversation much as he set to cleaning his skates. The plastic bag Beverly let him take sat unmoving in the still air. Maybe that should have been his clue; there was barely a snatch of wind. He heard the rattling before it rounded the corner, but he was too preoccupied to gather his things quickly and leave. Gritting his teeth, he felt himself stop rubbing in the careful pattern he once developed. As his mind scattered, his actions also went off script, willing the gift of invisibility or sudden flight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie ate the fumes of Richie’s exhaust once the truck passed by and stopped just a few feet after it passed him. He glared from his position on the sidewalk but his anger broke once he caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview, legs stretched out with his usual throw-on baseball shorts. Cheeks turning ruddy and gross, sheened with sweat from doing maintenance. Quickly the mirror fixed and the sun’s hard slant bleached Richie’s mouth but the brilliance of his dark eyes were visible in high quality. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he accepted the invitation, it was stiffly. It was a matter of facts. His skates were out of commission, it was getting late, there were weird people around this side of town, and Eddie didn’t want his things snatched. The worn fabric of the passenger seat wasn’t uncomfortable and the driver’s side change slot only had a few dime sized cigarettes smashed into it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t do anything crazy,” he grunted and Richie snorted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well then don’t agitate me.” His drawl was purposefully insinuating a stupidity in Eddie’s command, but he didn’t punch the engine or try to take any insane turns. The teen held his tongue and kept it to himself that </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span> to Richie was an attack. The most imperceivable tone or small giggle could render somebody with their head thrown against a wall or the too-tall brunette suddenly drawing up tight and tall like some kind of alien.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been a few minutes of Rich glancing down at his very exposed legs before he dropped the question,  only briefly looking at Eddie’s actual face. “You seen Bev recently?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. She-- We hung out today.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Imperceptive was the change in the car’s tone. Richie just continued driving and said, quietly, ‘huh’ and then clicked his tongue. Maybe it had been unexpected. Or maybe it had been, but was something of those thoughts that Richie tried to deny the reality of, like when he swore up and down he’d fail an exam and seemed almost baffled by good marks. When he tried to deny that an actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>funny</span>
  </em>
  <span> short story he wrote had all the potential to get into their county’s column and the nuclear surprise of actually seeing it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once they pulled up to his street, Richie stopped before they hit the Kaspbrak residence and finally gave full attention to his passenger. “What the hell is wrong with you to leave the house like that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie’s creased brows made his voice darken. “God, I can’t imagine how ignorant your fucking household is. Got your mommy protecting you from all the wrong shit--” he ran an agitated hand through his hair and that gave Eddie enough time to retort. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever you’re talking about, it doesn’t need to include my mother, you asshole” the rollerblader groused and then frowned tightly. Hand on the handle, he turned away and said, “Thank you, Richie.” His tonal change seemed to burst the immediate bolt of anger that streaked said teen’s face. Staring up from the sidewalk into the car, Eddie said, “okay bye” and flapped a hand at the frozen figure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In his car, Richie’s startling laugh made Eddie quizzical. Richie said something that included the term ‘limp wrist’ in the cough and sputter of his engine as he shifted gears and drove away. Ed had no idea what limp wrists had to do with anything but the encounter left him feeling acutely aware of the goosebumps crawling up his calves. Once those shorts were washed, he only felt comfortable wearing them to bed, shifting restlessly until someone kept their hands over his eyes and he was allowed to slip into a new nightmare.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>shorter chapter, honestly indulgent because i like beveddie  interactions. make me smile.<br/>flahbacks also make me smile.</p><p>gonna try and stagger out the next few chapters-- not everyday but hopefully once/twice a week. enjoyed dropping some context and been really appreciating the nice comments you guys have been leaving. </p><p>hopefully I'm coloring the richie/eddie relationship dynamic then v now well.<br/>maybe kissing will happen next chapter? hohoho... </p><p>comments and kudos still amaze me. thanks for sticking around</p><p>okay love you bye-<br/>xo</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. starstruck (incident iii.)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>three development, three disturbances, three incidents. </p><p>eddie does something not very charming.<br/>(get it? because third time's the)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Purple clouds allowed the smallest peaks of orange in a mostly dark sky when Eddie got on campus. The gates were still closed by the main entrance but the car park usually had a loophole, and if all else failed, the fence was easy to scale. The gravel and bumpy cement transferred smoothly over to the poorly paved sidewalk nearest the baseball fields. Eddie had learned to balance pretty well for his patented shoe-at-a-time rollerskate transformation. Better was the ease he held in supporting his backpack and flute case as he vaulted himself over the tetanus-nightmare blockade. He was careful to avoid squishing any ladybugs who often made their rounds over the chainlinks.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had his roller skates tied to his backpack and walked with his flute case in hand, fingers tapping out a portion of their song. The whisper of denim as he moved was really the only accompaniment to a deserted school. The cold air and isolation felt refreshing but similarly scary. At least he knew he wouldn’t be isolated for long, going down the familiar routes for the band room. Teachers were already on campus and maintenance nodded at him in greeting, immediately calming the nagging panic. D5’s backdoor was outside and the keys hid under a rock nestled close to a hole in the brick wall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was going to be a performance that day. Nothing large like an after school affair, but just one of those spirit day exhibitions. He knew the guard were practising their colours and the choir was supposed to have a short performance. No doubt someone would try to push their vocals in some hackneyed attempt at summoning star power,  assuming most everyone would be made to watch the performance in the cafeteria. If he admitted to feeling nervous, it would spell catastrophe during his performance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie hoped he was past the point of freezing up when threatened and pushing forward into action. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A week had passed without a real incident. There were little things but it was like life fell back into its manicured new normal; Richie harassed him from afar while a girl was attached to his hip, Bill and Mike provided jovial and kind support, Stan met up with him for study work and project progress. Work and extracurriculars made the ominous confession by his street seem misremembered and fake (if it weren’t for the weird times Richie would corner him just to walk away.) He thought about it while he practised fingering the long run correlating to the second stanza. That ever familiar clench had him take a deep breath to struggle through what felt like real pain. It shuddered up his sides and spread its hands to dig into his chest, a pressure that bordered on irritation and pain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He spitefully continued his flute playing until the rushed tonality channeled itself into a nearly perfect practise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Several things had occurred that were upsetting Eddie’s routine. Routine was something he deeply valued, after all, and change took too much processing time for someone as busy as he. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Upon exiting the muffled closet into the busy and spit-drenched world of the band room, Eddie signed out on the clipboard he’d prepared that morning and left down the halls. One big thing was his awareness of Mike and Bill as he passed them chatting on the stairwell. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Since they were kids, Bill had a crush on Beverly and Beverly, she returned it. It was easy to like Beverly with her light and humour and snark and sophistication. She held herself like someone who knew just a little of everything that the world had to offer but never pushed it into anyone’s face unless it felt deserved. Even if her biting retorts spawned fights, Eddie could not consciously say Bev was without reason or behaved untruthfully. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bill at his core liked nice people. And someone so giving like Bev, of course he would like. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>But then there was Mike…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he could see how comfortable they were around each other. Their gestures and tiny affections were an immediate and understandable part of communication-- it came as easy as saying ‘hi.’ Mike’s arm on the back of the booth they sat in at the diner, knowing Bill would plop next to him. Near the end of lunch, they’d start speaking about private plans. Dreamy-eyed Bill discussing how Mike showed him a faster way to fix the chains on almost any bike. Their open smiles, their close bodies in the middle of period change, Bill leaned against the locker as Mike stood, muscles jumping under his plain t-shirt balancing books and notepads.Obviously there was something going on that furtive glances and small giggles were barely masking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Climbing the stairs to his first period, Stan waved from down the hall and winked. He laughed at Eddie’s fumbling attempt to return the gesture, turning into class and leaving the other flushed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was the second one. He feared he and Stan were falling into a similar pattern. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feared because it was new and uncertain. Because he didn’t know why or how; had the strained surprise that was Bill and Mike’s probable relationship pushed him and Stan together? What if the other was just acting on third-wheel energy? What if he was reciprocating for just the same reason? But it was so hard because Stan was so good and it felt like something had snapped into a too bright clarity, glowstick toxic, because he did like Stan. He loved how he and Stan were so close and got on well. His parents were strict but supportive and loving. Their house was clean and Stan’s bed felt cozy, and when they roughhoused, that weight on him felt </span>
  <em>
    <span>undeniably</span>
  </em>
  <span> good. Just the memories of panted breaths and flutterlight laughs curled his insides into a tight knot and a hand into a tight fist as he rested his forehead against the tile, feeling hotter than the water that bathed him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Being in the troupe together made it so that sharing space with the taller boy was forming into a habit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gentle hugs and eating small meals. Small Yiddish phrases, being touched with careful care during a down period. Eddie would let himself close his eyes just enough so Stan was reduced to hair and hands. The other would play with his fingers or trace shapeless promises on his legs or wrists until Eddie squirmed with the sensation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Were they mimicking their two friends? Did Stan like him? Running joke number 643 was Stan’s infatuation with Maggie and the hackneyed, coy attempts he made to get closer to her. But now things were happening and his brain wouldn’t let him take a rest from the parade of images the soundbyte of Stan’s pants would procure, during grocery shopping, during bathroom cleaning, during Calculus. Eddie didn’t know how he was going to pass the next test when his head couldn’t decide between imagining falling on stage or kissing Stanley Uris. He already knew there was no way derivatives would be absorbed that day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liking Stan, he realised on his way to lunch, introduced its own set of problems.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To be with him and around him had been easy- and still was. But there was a lingering tension as he smiled at the aforementioned male, already sliding in to sit next to him and inquire about the day thus far. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Over figs, Stan laughed about a recent paper grading memory. “-and since I was already finished with my work, you know, Mrs. Green was on board with letting me help her with the last papers. What I’d completely forgotten was that one guy, remember the one I mentioned?- Yeah! So he,” Stan wiped a tear away, still chortling. “I completely forgot that I’d drawn this stupid doodle on his paper, something encouraging, right? So he preemptively drew his own doodle back as if </span>
  <em>
    <span>expecting </span>
  </em>
  <span>me to grade his paper and it was this plea about ‘hi, if you’re reading this then you know that this wasn’t my best work.’”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The darkness of his hair against delicate and handsome features gave him this angelic quality that Eddie loved to see. Loved to notice. Bill and Mike walked up as he giggled along with Stan, tears threatening to build as they both struggled to get through the story. He did want to reach out and touch him in some way, eventually caved as Stan continued and his hand shot out to grip the other’s leg to support the surprised ‘oof!’ that folded his body in at a new part of the school tale.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was third and final that Eddie didn’t deserve an angel. Honestly, he didn’t know if he wanted one. Because in those obscure moments of their horseplay and teases, the empty space right before a painful dig, a step too far, not enough of a push, made him draw back and wonder </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Why did he want Stanley to just grin and make Eddie bear an onslaught of shoves or teasing? Why didn’t he keep touching his legs or hands when Eddie squirmed? And why would he </span>
  <em>
    <span>critique</span>
  </em>
  <span> that?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wanted nothing more than the bubble of infatuation he saw between his friends, noticed more and more everyday. But something held him back. Even his appreciation of Stan’s handsome laugh only capped at 98%. It took the wind out of him to realise that his genetic makeup was predisposed to make happiness hard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dread followed him after lunch, into his next period, down the hall and across campus to pack up with his band and head to the cafeteria again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hopefully during this stupid assembly, he could make an epiphany and get over it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Their trombones went first, a trio performing some verbose, showtune number. Everyone had gathered to watch and the band played intermittently between the Color Guard, an interesting short skit from the freshman reading class, and choir performances. Eddie’s lips were still smarting from an energetic recitation of some generic Latin samba. A few people among the collected students seemed disappointed that the rumoured dance accompaniment did not pan out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan sat in the third row with Bill, Mike a row in front of them with his classmates. They flashed him smiles and clapped extra hard after band pieces. Attentive eyes should have delighted him but there was something in the water. People knew about Richie and his less than settled state during auditorium-anything. Bulged near the middle of one of the rows, his presence manifested in obvious disturbance even if he couldn’t be specifically seen. Rude clatters and extra-loud yawns punctuated band pieces specifically, targeted whenever the woodwinds grew particularly strong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie would love to chalk it up to paranoia. Feeling threatened and harassed from afar was getting to him, but he tried not to crack. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think they’ll let us leave early after this?” Ashley was firstchair, still sitting straight and looking ahead like the professional he was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They saw Maggie’s shoulders shift in what was her abrupt effort to stifle a reaction. “God, I hope so.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone in the clarinets nudged Eddie’s chair with their foot and made a hushing noise, which was rich since he didn’t even say anything and it came from the </span>
  <em>
    <span>noisiest</span>
  </em>
  <span> instrument class after the fucking baritones (and though tubas were large and loud, the five on tuba were uncomrpisingly quiet and yielded the girthy instruments with elegance, transforming regular cacophony into something rich and robust and </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> shrieky unlike-)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie shifted so he could jam his elbow back to stab the offender’s foot. It was probably Sharod, judging from the hard leather that were his ‘good band’ shoes. He was so glad he never joined clarinet back in junior high. They’re such assholes now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A poetry reading came to a close and Eddie stood with the rest of the band to give a short bow before sitting again. They were doing popcorn pieces in varying disciplines, runs from Beethoven, Sinatra, Chopin and the lot. Sitting was honestly a little uncomfortable after getting so used to pep rally practise and conducting. Sometimes, he kind of wished he’d stuck with the trumpet instead of gunning for something he knew he’d excel at. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mediocrity was a blight and he’d never accept anything below 100 full-stop but man, that had been a good time… There was a cool kid test needed to pass into trumpeting ranks, however, and Eddie could only stand failing at math; he may have been a loser but going out of his way to display it? Eugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their band teacher stepped to the front and waved again, tutted an ‘ahem, okay’ before speaking (a cute idiosyncrasy Eddie noticed as a freshman) to the audience again.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What an enjoyable poem by Ms. Gardener’s honors class.” Maggie quietly snorted, covered by the next, “Ahahem, well, as a youth, often I- and I am sure your other instructors- attended readings at the local library or even scary fair. Often literature and other performances in the old days had the addition of a sound with a chamber orchestra- the music of friends. I’d like to think we’re all friends here so let’s introduce some compositions from famous ‘small form’ composers and musicians.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were going on bar 21 of <em>Fly Me to the Moon</em>, something quite un-chamberlike, the chairs from the respective sections standing, when the sharp whistling cleaved neatly through Eddie’s focus. He felt himself spit a little more into his flute and his eyes quickly darted up from the stand of sheet music that he had barely been following to begin with. He could feel the sweat on his neck as his finger tips slid from hole to hole, slurring appropriately as an oboe shrilled dissonantly to the sight of Richie Tozier’s too sharp eyes. It wasn’t exactly that he could see him but felt every inch of his pointed presence, the mocking stare. Even as teachers on the flanks began to start the whisper message toward the offender, another whistle and a whoop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thought he would get sick, suddenly reminded of fainting during 4th grade recital. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t look over at his other chairs with the lights up ahead; his face was in plain detail from the front row and only started to get fuzzy from the middle back if his memory of </span>
  <em>
    <span>being</span>
  </em>
  <span> a viewer served him correctly. Eddie’s eyes fled back to the comforting black and white music sheet. None of what he saw made sense and auto function carried him through the rest of the performance. Once they sat down, nausea must have been visibly rolling over his features. Respite came from April’s brave audition to sing the National Anthem. Her voice cracked and she changed it to a drop instead of a belt around those fields of whey or whatever. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A teacher was talking to Richie and maybe his friend. One had entered to make her way through shoes and backpacks, the dim silhouette with hands on hips letting Eddie cut out the scene. Richie with long legs spread, slumped and pressing his tongue to the front of his teeth with an obnoxious smirk in the dark. He’d look even messier from all of the fidgeting and harassing that had amassed throughout the assembly. And he’d do that stupid thing where he laughed through his nose, keeping the same open mouthed tongue-to-the-teeth posturing spread, look to the side or over his shoulder as if hordes of people were around to laugh with him because Richie Tozier was a jerk who lived to humiliate. He lived for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A fan of his work</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Do fans do that? Go out of their way to publicly embarrass others? He was </span>
  <em>
    <span>such</span>
  </em>
  <span> a fucking asshole and God, Eddie wished he had Bev’s strength to just punch him clear in the face, to tell him off and walk away with confidence but he was shaking in his chair while Ashley and Maggie looked on in worry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Objectively, Eddie wasn’t present on their return to the band room. He remembers walking out along with everyone and acknowledging the confusion on Bill’s face; his instructor was congratulating them, talking to the brass about some minor improvements; the end of the day had come already and people were putting their things in cubbies, Eddie joined them, which he typically never did; something about who was in charge of clean up; his instructor talked to him and a few others about discussing collaborations with the drama department; he was outside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His feet carried him and his breath was held. The extra weight of his flute was absent.  Someone was running behind him. There was the main gate and then the girl by the trees, then  Harry with another girl who he knew went by Caro, a strung out Mitchel, then Richie-- kids were laughing, scuffling of footsteps, buses and cars driving up and away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t like how they described it in books. Nothing drowned out exactly. He just felt a single focus. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every step was like his body was attempting to wake up, the “ants” exploding between hurt and tingles on his soles, in the swing of his arms. Mitchel noticed him first but didn’t open his mouth enough. Harry was second, crunch of leaves under his feet getting lazy eyes his way. Then Caro, the other girl. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie almost always knew when he was around. Eddie would have sworn the second he exited D5 with the throng of bandkids, Rich had gotten a signal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone loosened their mouth for a witty retort- Eddie could hear the smack of parting lips- but it never came to pass. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need to talk to you.” His voice was unrecognisable even to himself, strained to a matronly terseness. “RIght now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It could have been easy; things with Richie used to be easy. If he told him instructions, they were executed with little cajoling and many jokes. Eddie could tap his foot against the boy’s cheek, mess with his glasses, pull on his hair, steal his clothes and Richie would just look happy to be alive and around for it to occur. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now standing so cocksure, head full of eyeballs and danger, the male just cocked an unimpressed eyebrow then glanced at his friends. “Might have to refer you to my secretary. My appointment book is full at the moment,” he answered slow and slick. “You want my attention, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He obviously wants to pull you aside and get you all alone.” Caro snickered. The kids passing by spared them looks but went on their way. Some stopped after crossing the street.  “Thank you personally.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry laughed and said something about a ‘standing ovation’ and Richie joined in. That’s what did it. The fact that a joke that </span>
  <em>
    <span>stupid</span>
  </em>
  <span> would make Richie even chuckle a tiny bit.,It was stupid and so was Richie but a laugh like that? For </span>
  <em>
    <span>Harry</span>
  </em>
  <span>? For </span>
  <em>
    <span>Caro</span>
  </em>
  <span>? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I'm not joking around, Richie, seriously.” His head felt full. The sun was too bright and the little piece of cold that crept into the afternoon was burning hard in his nose. Flight or fight was getting warmed up but Eddie couldn’t move, felt the adrenaline flooding him </span>
  <em>
    <span>to</span>
  </em>
  <span> move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“ ‘Richie seriously,’” he mocked high and shrill-- god, were his voices getting better? His voices were improving and that’s what he used it on, just fucking mocking him? The frustration and fury carried him forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie Tozier had five inches on him but Eddie yielded the surprising effect of being pushed past a limit he hadn’t kept checks on since the 7th grade, cracking with the bloom of unmitigated anger. There in front of school, technically still on the grounds, Eddie reached to wallop his ex-friend as hard as possible. His knuckles only barely grazed him before Harry was yanking him back and Caro was moving quick to join in on the restraint. Maybe he yelled- it sounded like someone did-- feet slipping on autumn leaves and using the momentum to violently twist and bash his knee into Harry’s groin-</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It’s down, middle, up’n’up. Think of it like one of Richie’s dumb combos.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Bev demonstrated on an overlarge teddy bear, lifting his leg, jabbing at the air, other arm quickly hitting up and then fingers coming out to claw at the bear’s face with an exaggerated hiss. Eddie giggled and asked if the hissing was option but it was, in fact, </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>mandatory </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Beverly laughed and</span>
  </em>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which didn’t do much of anything except get him thrown to the ground. Others were yelling, someone hauled him up and he came out of the cold waters of shock spitting mad. “I’ll beat your fucking ass from here to fucking Kingdom Come you goddamn son of a bitch!” he hollered at Harry, bereaved, heated. “You fucks! You fucking fucks, you goddamn pussycrunching no-good total fucking washout goddamn </span>
  <em>
    <span>cabbage-smelling</span>
  </em>
  <span> ASSHOLE, go fffUCK yourself! And <strong>you</strong> can eat shit, too, you’RE NOT EVEN SPANISH--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What he and Richie were matched in came down to energy and ruthlessness. He was twisting and turning, being caught and held, squeezed and grappled, and for every big push of energy he built up trying to charge back into the fray, an equal force held him back. It took all three of Stan, Mike, and random-stranger to firmly dislodge him from the fighting ring he’d formed. The only one whipped up into a real frenzy was him. Harry’s large frame had swelled like a bullfrog but now that Eddie could focus more, the snapshot anger had turned into a picture of pity. Harry looked bewildered and abashed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other girl was looking over him, Caro and Mitchel both standing but too high to do anything more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie stood at the center holding the scuff on his cheek, glasses crooked. Eddie met his eyes as he was dragged away and felt reality drop like a brick right on his cartoonishly hot head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dark eyes crinkled in a familiar, wolfish, unhappy smile, and the cracks pulled too tight and split. The bright red spot against pale pink was like a stab wound paused in its bleeding. “That was </span>
  <em>
    <span>awesome</span>
  </em>
  <span> but </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> not good, Eddie, holy shit--” Mike was whispering fast and Bill’s stutter had overtaken him to the point of painful teeth chatters when he finally managed to tell Mike to </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> congratulate his behaviour.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Eddie turned his head away from the image without knowing how. It felt like his neck wasn’t supporting anything at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan was running his fingers through his hair and had Eddie’s backpack over his shoulder along with his own. They were like a small barrier and he was reminded of when they all surrounded him at, fuck, the house at Neibolt (god he was going to) and Richie had told him, screaming, to look at him, and the fear and the pain, screaming as he felt his bones snap, Bill’s arm around him like it was now, Mike lifting him to sit knees to chest in the basket (a pose of panic, a pose to breathe, if he could duck his head but he couldn’t because then the bile) of his bike-- he’d felt so terrified and the exhilaration of being too close to danger. That horrible sense of fear and as they rode away, Eddie swore It was after them, that at any second the teeth would mangle Mike’s bike and he’d go careening. Eddie would fly out of the basket into the awaiting mouth that was all too red and smiling big to be eaten alive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie was going to kill him, no Bev to bravely stab him, no Bill to chase after him. Richie was going to fucking tear him limb from limb, beak bloody, eyes wild with that big stupid grin on his face the entire time.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<span>Eddie’s stomach churned and he clamped down, convulsing. Stumbling with him, Bill quickly shifted to helping him get to the side bushes as he vomited. Mike’s ‘oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>’ and Stan’s gasp were blurs as he kicked his legs, back arched as he coughed and expelled on the dirty sidewalk. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hi, so, no kissing hehe wow triiiicked you. bet you were like "oh man are eddie and rihchie gonna Kiss" weeeeelll something kissed something, skin to skin contact was had!yeah, y'know, eddie might be a whore for some tozier but he's not a simp(ering) baby. but that's gonna be some shit. lol<br/>who would do that? wow, who would write that to happen.....</p><p>anyways, she's a little longer as well. get into it.</p><p>thank you for reading, appreciate the comments and kudos. ok thanks<br/>love you, bye-<br/>xo</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. penciled-in</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>there are repercussions to actions. they are all bad!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Eddie didn’t show up to school for that following Monday. His Mother called in and said he was “</span>
  <em>
    <span>sicker than anything</span>
  </em>
  <span>” where he lay curled up stone-faced in his room after the tumultuous Friday afternoon that saw him sobbing under Sonia’s Kaspbrak’s scrutiny.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’d searched him for a sign of concussion for two hours. Thankfully, the fall leaves and grass provided a good cushion. At some point, he was hit and further investigation led to the ugly bruise that was etched into his arm, turning a slow and sick green with pools of purple. His mother squawked, bemoaned the heathens who hurt him, all while holding him by his thin arm right under where the healing sick had settled. That coupled with the paranoia made him a mess of tears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Eddie sweetie, don’t you worry, we’re going to have a talk with that horrible staff; we won’t let this stand. Even if it means you getting transferred right sweetie?” she half dragged him upstairs, rubbing his hair and pulling his face to her bosom in suffocating interludes that muffled the house wracked with cries. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They can’t do that to you, let those dirty people touch you-- no good potheads and junkies, all of them. Oh, honey, let Mommy get you nice and tucked in, my poor darling. My poor little peach.” And though the comfort disgusted him, a child’s crochet blanket, too thick and too dirty from years collecting dust, was still an activation code for his neural network. The dust agitated him but his tears were calming until his breaths were not shuddering anymore, big deep gulps breaking up the frenzied, hiccuped noises from before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonia didn’t take visitors when her little boy was so stunningly sick. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Laying on his back, Eddie spent Monday watching the window and seeing ghosts. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Water dripped on his face and then cold on his lips, until Eddie’s head lolled back and his eyes opened in a squint. “Mmgn?” His lips parted easily for the other boy to push an icecube into his mouth, and the perspiration linked fingers to mouth momentarily. Smiling down at him, he fed Eddie another ice cube with a slow stretch as he settled down in his familiar spot on the bed.</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You’ll burn up in here; aren’t you hot? Or did you already break your fever?” A hand accompanied the line of questioning as Richie felt under Eddie’s chin, where his throat bobbed with a suppressed giggle. Goosebumps flew where the cold fingers went and Eddie squirmed, kicking his cover off to shove a foot at Richie’s leg.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Shut up, you’re so loud.” It was mid-afternoon and his Mother was watching TV downstairs. She picked him up out of school early when she heard parent volunteers were doing lice checks and demanded her child have his own private consultation. Nasty hands from nasty people had been her exclamation in the school office. It must have been a few hours after judging by how the shadows grew in his room, the way golden light caught the holey socks of Richie’s feet where they lay draped on the bed. Eddie leaned against him and grinned, allowing the other to fit the straw into his mouth as he drank the fizzy soda.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Missed you at lunch today.” Eddie answered with a hum and felt his eyes briefly close as Richie’s hand carded through his hair. “It’s always way too quiet without you screaming about some lame bullshit,” he joked and gently tugged on the boy’s hair, getting a tiny hiccuped noise and then a swat. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sensitive as Eddie was, he always seemed to respond best to jabs and pinches, yanks and little tugs. Richie smiled at him with all his teeth before relinquishing the pop. “Well,” he started. “It’s not my fault you guys can’t carry an entertaining conversation. Bet everyone always hates to give you your bigtop platform.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’ll have you know they loved my performance--”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Mmhm.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Which stunned and amazed all of them with the introduction of Senorita Chacha--”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh really?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Whose fat ass and big, heaving tits take inspiration from the rough translatio-”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Don’t do it-”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“The rough translation of ‘Kaspbrak,’ since your hot little Mom--”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh, my God, beep-fucking-beep!” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Richie’s laugh was smothered by the pillow Eddie hit him with thankfully, flat on his back and being held down by the scrawnier and smaller male as they both waited and listened for tell-tale floorboard creaks. But none were to be heard and Richie increased his punishment by a suggestive waggling of his tongue.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Some off-white salve had been smeared onto his bruises and the smell was oppressive. Eddie restlessly rocked his hips, curled his toes, knew he was getting the medicine on bedcover, but couldn’t care because he thought about Richie well into the night, thought about him when the hours slipped past that into morning when the sky was mostly dark except for little strips of purple just lightening the sky. Flipped on his side so the rough texture of one of his blankets scraped against the bruise as he got a fist around himself, eyes slit as they looked at the just cracked window. The still sheet that rustled barely at the bottom with early morning chill. His moans were silent, tears primed to fall as he mouthed his name. Replayed fingers boring into his flesh and how Richie smiled at him. It was in the collision course of memories and make-believe that his orgasm would hit him; seeing the blood pebble, looking into Richie’s eyes as his arm was snapped into place like he was a doll, the knife-slit smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sweaty, chest heaving, his eyes never left the window as the tendons in his neck pulled taunt and his soundless noises edged out into ragged pants. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shuddered. Lay there staring and waiting for pale fingers to curl over the windowpane, the metallic glint of a knife or noise indicating heavy contact between wood and a gun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But nothing came.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Squealing pipes woke Sonia Kaspbrak up but she didn’t have the gumption to wrestle her way into the cold air. Eddie washed his sheets in the early morning and, poor thing, probably got sick and made a mess. But her baby always tried his best even when he was feeling his worst. What an admirable young man her Eddie-bear was.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I expect you know why you’re here, Mr. Kaspbrak.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>How ridiculous this situation was had taken some time to hit Eddie, but here he was- for the first time- with the Principal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Being one of the office’s major visitors, Eddie did not fear it. In fact his relationship with administration was pretty alright. They pitied him with barely restrained contempt aimed toward his mother, but not because they cared about him. She just made their lives miserable with one ill-fated squeal of her Chevy. As a former woodwind, the Principal enjoyed visits to the band room, too, so it wasn’t as if they had never met or spoken before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it had never been in this capacity and never under these circumstances.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead of sullen, Eddie sat straight and tried not to bounce his leg as he nodded. Smiling at him, Mr. Burnes folded his hands at his desk and exhaled as if speaking was tiresome. “I’m glad you’re not offering up any immediate defenses,” he continued amiably. “It’s too often that people don’t take accountability and it’s a practise that many youth would benefit greatly from.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nod.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Kaspbrak, you’re aware your behavior was… let’s say, untoward?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, sir.” He met the the man’s gaze with solemn agreement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spreading his hands, Mr. Burnes shrugged and tapped a finger to his desk. It was barely cluttered and made Eddie think he rushed to clean the table off before he entered. “I understand that the disagreement occurred with Richard Tozier, so.” A weighted silence. “It’s not unfathomable that the incident happened, just that your involvement in it was so large.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He held a button on his desk and looked expectantly at the door, Eddie turning his head also as a shape approached the crystal window. Blurred and warped the two people entered-- one was the drama instructor and the other, Richie Tozier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alarm bells were ringing in his head and the blood was beginning to make his ears pound. Quickly looking away, he resumed a firm and upright position. The dry rub of wooden legs dragging along carpet made the sparse hairs on his arms rise. With a resolute thunk, he listened to the seat next to him sag to accommodate the slouched posture of the additional student. Eddie did not dare look his way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With the same amiable way, their principal beckoned the teacher closer who stood by the desk to face them. “Hello, you two. If you weren’t aware, my name is Ms. Crumb and I’m the club instructor and head of the drama department.” She held an easy stance, leg crossed behind the other as she spoke with waving hands. “You see, drama is about bringing disparate parts and components together into a working order. And being able to collaborate with many different kinds of people to have that go well.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie didn’t like this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know that you, Eddie, have been helping out Stanley with the current play we’re putting on. And I appreciate that-- but a big part of being in production is showcasing the ability that you can work with other people.” Her expression was edging into something stern that had Eddie’s mouth fighting to open. Consciously, he bit the inside of his cheek and nodded. Sweat was building somewhere in his armpit. He felt a drop slide down as her attention shifted to Richie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a wistful smile, she segued into her pre-planned bomb. “So many students that Principal Burnes and I have seen really turned things around with their own behavior and their relationships with others under specific pressure. Here’s my proposal: Eddie, I want you to stay on the production design team, and I don’t want you to suffer demerits from your band instructor either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>To avoid these, I’d like you and Richard to work together--” her voice raised as he balked “on some special tasks for the play as to </span>
  <em>
    <span>prove</span>
  </em>
  <span> that you’re working through and past these stressful times and reaffirming a relationship that is professional. Because we are </span>
  <em>
    <span>working</span>
  </em>
  <span> to build you all into professionals with the capability of entering college, the workforce, trades and respecting your peers even if you do not inherently like them!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I support her plan,” the principal piped in, which really just made Eddie look even more blown away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie’s head lolled to his shoulder and he chuckled, eyebrows rising. “That’s rich,” he muttered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you like to say that a little louder, Mr. Tozier?” He and the drama teacher met eyes; she cocked her head and he narrowed his eyes with a smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All teeth, his reply was prompt. “I said ‘that’s rich.’ Hah, y’know. A real wealth of opportunity. So you’re assigning us as lackeys to pass off tireless work as some synergistic what-have-you? That’s what--” He looked around, amused. “That’s what I’m getting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Where Richie had decided to argue labour laws, Eddie could scarcely bring himself to care. The meeting felt like a dream that slowly buzzed down into a thrum in his head. What the actual fuck? He had to be forced to work with Richie and he watched, with the inability to do anything, as the tall teen crafted a longer and more in-depth death sentence. His rebellion and rejection bartered them a close working period, monitored free time during lunch where they’d have to eat together; afterhour detention blocks which would have them work silently; bi-weekly meetings with Ms. Crumb to show progress on the assignments she’d give them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What was masked as annoyed guffaw could be viewed by Eddie as the laugh of someone who was already relishing a well-laid trap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie Kaspbrak was going to be murdered by Richie. There was no way he wasn’t going to die, and there was no one to help him now. Once he was dismissed, the eyes of three people boring into his back, Eddie walked into the newly unfamiliar landscape of his campus. Chatter extinguished then resumed in double-speed as he walked down the halls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His locker was a mess, bashed and dented nastily. Some people snickered but mostly, they looked and walked away with grimaces. He’d been dropped off in the middle of the day after securing a doctor’s note. Meeting with the principal had occupied most of the lunch period, so Eddie busied himself with going around campus to see if he could retrieve homework from teachers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The day was over quickly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He went and found his friends.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They walked him to room N112 grimly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know why they could think that’s a good idea,” Mike said with a voiced anger that was more visibly seen on Bill’s mute face. Obviously, the news had not gone over well. Public service could have been one thing-- they could work in shifts, like they’d done with Bev, to ensure the problem didn’t persist and support their friend. Enclosed supervision on the part of their instructors couldn’t be trusted much; it wasn’t like Ms. Crumb herself would be keeping an eye out but maybe some substitute or disinterested party.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“T-The big t-t-t-thing w-eee need to f-f-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>focus, on, is whe-when yo-youu… meet up.” Bill rubbed an agitated hand across his neck. “I-If Ri-Richie doesn’t bl-bl-blow you off, ob-obviously.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan threw his hands up. “Of course he’ll blow off!” At Mike’s unspoken aside to Bill, Uris put his hands on his hips in a stance that looked quite like his father’s when they ran off mid-lecture. “What, you think Trashmouth Tozier is actually going to listen to the rules? I don’t even know how he hasn’t dropped fucking out-- he doesn’t care!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Th-This, is </span>
  <em>
    <span>s-so-ooo</span>
  </em>
  <span> much different.” Eddie leaned against the wall closest to the door, hiding his nerves as the three bickered back and forth spinning predictions. His restlessness was building because they were going to have to leave soon and he’d be alone with Richie. It felt like tension thrumming on the other side of the plaster walls; his new partner would be in there, waiting, with wolf teeth and an annoying smirk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spare dramatics were appreciated but really, Eddie just wanted to get this first punishment through and done. “You guys, I’m just going to head in before they start calling for me,” he broke into the conversation. The expressions received were mixed between annoyance, worry, and attempted ease. Stan was the first to put a hand on his shoulder and reel him in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’ll be fine, he’ll probably barely show up,” he encouraged and gave him a small squeeze once he got an arm around Eddie. Bill and Mike both joined in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, it’s going to be okay” “C-Call an-anytime, tell us h-h-how it goes” “Just try and focus”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Friends were a blessing but their time was temporary for the taking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They watched him open the door to N112 and give them one small wave before entering the drama classroom. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie was not there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A teacher had been designated to oversee things and gave Eddie an assignment to start on designing poster boards that advertised the upcoming show. The bucket with many repeating marker colours and some tubes of cheap acrylic paint were what he’d have to make do with. Too nervous to ask about the possibility of, mayhaps, getting brushes and a bowl to put water in, the flutist set to work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes would constantly lift to the classroom door. Looking up past fluorescent light and trying to catch a glimpse from his position on the floor, he watched for a sign but none came. It was only the blurred shapes belonging to janitors or other students in extracurriculars. Even listening was difficult through the thick, metal door that blocked out distinguishable voices. It reminded him of the window and watching, waiting, to be caught with parted lips and raw knees. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just the thought alone was enough to get him dizzy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span><em>I’m more scared of blushing around him than of him beating me bloody.</em> That truth made Eddie snort to himself, too loud, and he looked bashfully at the critical teacher. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is there something to laugh about, Mr. Kaspbrak?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, ma’am. Just… funny thought,” the student lamely replied before switching out another marker for its twin to start blocking in the letters of the ‘cast’ heading.It was the follies of being a teenager. Getting hard in a heartbeat, trying to calm down-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>randy</span>
  </em>
  <span> echoed again in his mind as work progressed on the garish poster board. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time all of the sections had their headings and Eddie was finished using a stubby pencil to map out planned cursive, the overseer left to fetch Mr. Tozier. She was gone for enough time that Eddie assumed she went to heat up a small meal at the teacher’s lounge. With his bookbag under his stomach, he selected a few markers as the door opened again. The period was almost over and Eddie didn’t care if the woman scrutinised his lazy position. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could smell her lunch as she walked over to the desk at the front, rifled around her purse. It got quiet as she began slurping on a drink. The noise of her straw scrapping the styrofoam hole made Eddie cringe, and he dared a peeved glare when his blood started to leave his feet and head straight up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie, who was not a teacher of any kid, finished his long drink and his lips came off the straw red at the center. A burrito was held in the other hand, the wrapper pulled down halfway and limp with grease. His messy backpack lay crumped in the desk's chair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a sardonic tone, he pointed his drink in indication of their posterboard. “Don’t stop on my account.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His throat was dry but Eddie finally summoned up the words, blandly rejoining, “I should be saying that.” Anger was struggling through the rush his body was experiencing as Richie Tozier began his prowl. He didn’t take a straight line, circling around a desk so that Eddie was forced to crane his neck and push up a little to follow him. “The period’s almost over.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Later, Eddie would feel the need to assure himself that things were innocent on his part, that his course of action was ill-fitting the resultant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. What about it?” Richie was behind him and Eddie twisted to look at him. Moved to get off of the backpack, scowl at the other, before dismissing him entirely in a fit of annoyance. He looked away from Richie eating to focus back on the presentation. Relocating the graphite against dark green took some time and he popped the cap of a marker, answering nastily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Forget it, Richie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In his head, he could say that the ever lengthening mop of hair that Richie sprouted wasn’t actually attractive. It was posed between unremarkable and ugly, in need of a stripping or just several passes through of a brush. His body was shaping up to be broad and hold weight; he’d overstuff himself on burritos and cheap shit and get a gut the size of their principal’s. He’d develop man breasts and have adult acne. Richie wasn’t going to bother him and he wasn’t even that cool, he wasn’t even that hot, he wasn’t his </span>
  <em>
    <span>Richie</span>
  </em>
  <span> anymore and there was no loyalty left so why was it hard for him to not look at the other teen when he pulled up a chair as noisily as possible and sat next to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why did it feel like a real struggle- his breath came in short, felt his sweat response kick in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without much warning, Eddie’s hand was pinned under the not-gentle pressure of Richie’s shoe. Eddie looked up with venom on the tip of his tongue then felt regret at not continuing his silent treatment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie had his legs spread, shoulders massive from the angle and Eddie felt that dizzying sensation as his eyes slowly clambered their way to Richie’s face, red mouth licking up a scrap of sour cream that escaped the last bite of his burrito. There was a quiet observation that Richie might not have been wearing boxers. There was lead in his stomach and his heartbeat felt connected to his cock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The teen shook the cup and the tinkle of icecubes and liquid sloshed faintly. “It’s almost done. You want the last bit?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took a while for Eddie to shake his head. His response was feathers to Richie, who grinned and beckoned. “C’mon. You haven’t had anything since you been in here, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie was silent and winced as Richie’s soles bore down harder. “Yes or no, Eds.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“NO,” he yelped and yanked his hand back, grimacing. "Don't call me that, you shithead-" before the shoe was under his chin and turning his head at an uncomfortable angle to look back up. Putting a hand against the shoe, it tapped against his cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another shake. “Then have some.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shoe tapped him again when Eddie reached a hand out to be passed it. Holding onto it this time, the younger man pushed himself up using it as leverage, getting to his knees and swiping to pull the cup down. Richie kept a hand on it as Eddie took a grateful drink then choked as it was jabbed up his mouth. Spluttering from the sharp plastic of the straw, he coughed after swallowing and punched at the closest thing to him-- which was Richie’s thigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dude, what the fuck--OW--” Knee hit chair and Kaspbrak found himself straddling the other, whose hand was twisted in the back of his head. Tears burned his eyes as Richie brought the soda cup to his mouth and drank, looking thoughtful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you think it was cute to try and hit me, Eds?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Richie, listen--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nooo, nonono. Let’s answer my questions: did you think it was cute to try and hit me, Eddie, yes or no?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The grip pulled and he hissed. “No! No--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay so why did you do it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie tried to twist and his head followed the direction of Richie’s pull. “Goddamit, Richie, because you’re being a jerk, stop! Stop, let go of me, you’re hurting me--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Awe, I’m hurting the baaabyy-- I just fucking fed you.” Eddie slumped once the other let go, finding himself with a stinging nose and blooming headache as he watched Richie. “Not only did I feed you, what’s the last thing I did for you? Oh, I took your little ass </span>
  <em>
    <span>home</span>
  </em>
  <span> didn’t I? Ah-- ah, ah, no--” The bespectacled teen shook his head as Eddie began to protest. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And what did I do before then, I took your ass home. See, what you don’t fucking get, Eddie-baby, what you don’t see, is how fucking nice I’ve been to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leaned back with the full displeasure darkening his face, cream-coated rice and beans making a mess in his mouth as he spoke. “I go out of my way to be good to you and what do you give me?” Snarl. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Dust</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Defensive, Eddie began. “Rich, you practically force me--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whose forcing you to do shit? Huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are! You’re always fucking yanking me around like I’m your goddamn </span>
  <em>
    <span>dog</span>
  </em>
  <span>--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Bitch</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he laughed, “you’re the one in </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> lap.” Eddie went red. “You’re the one looking lost and kicked, and you wanna say it’s my fault, that’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuuuucking</span>
  </em>
  <span> hilarious. You should do comedy! Why was I ever the one cracking jokes?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God, go fuck yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie’s hand was on his waist and pulled him flush. The position was uncomfortable and Eddie’s face fell at his erection against Richie’s stomach. He didn’t fight, mind zapped by the open way his former friend looked down while finishing off his burrito. A laugh followed his swallow. “Oh, yeah? Go fuck myself, right honey?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Get off of him. You need to get off. You have to walk out and leave.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The thoughts flooded his head but he couldn’t move, teeth clacking hard as Richie’s leg moved under him. It bounced but the brief friction broke the connection between Eddie’s communication network. His hand curled around the other’s shoulder and Richie’s hand went to curve under his ass. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a satisfied smile. Richie looked up at him. “Tell me to go fuck myself again, sweetheart. I’d like to hear it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Eddie was mute and they both knew it. He bounced his leg again and Eddie took it, slowly sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, hand curling into the other’s shirt with a sweaty grip. Richie murmured ‘say it again’ over and over, emphasizing his words with a rub against Eddie’s groin, a squeeze to his clothed cheeks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t know how long his brain had gone dormant before he finally began to struggle off. The resulting grind of Richie holding him down and him trying hard to scoot back ripped a surprised ‘shit!’ and the heat of the situation, of being caught, of being in school, in detention, on Richie’s lap, frotting nearly, had him buckling to suppress an orgasm that nearly tore him in two. His nails dug sharply into some flesh on Richie’s arm as he clawed down to have the other release him with a pained inhale, and Eddie fell on his ass by the posterboard, knocking over the bucket.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie’s pupils were blown wide and the red welts rose on his arm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie panted from the floor, bewildered, as Richie laughed and rubbed at the wounds. “God, you look pretty like that.” He fixed his glasses which had fogged at some point. They were so close… “What am I gonna do with you, huh, Eds?” The question was asked like a man who knew the answer to his query. If it were possible, he grew even harder, and the helpless noise he made did something that had Richie climbing out of his seat, suddenly advancing, crouching-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door began to open. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Their substitute walked in on Richie helping Eddie up, who looked shaken and flushed. Her eyes scanned the scene quickly. Markers rolled slowly in her direction. “What happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Tripped,” Eddie answered quickly. He pulled his jacket off to tie it around his waist and dived to start cleaning up. “I tripped trying to look for some supplies, I’m really sorry.”</span>
  <span></span><br/>

  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“You’re fine,” she interrupted his building ramble and watched Richie right the bin. Her frown remained suspicious but she looked at the wall clock. “Both of you are all set to go for the day. Tozier, I’m going to have to report your tardiness to Ms. Crumb and the principal, you understand that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yessir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her frown deepened. “Don’t do it again or your punishments are going to stack up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You got it.” Richie did not communicate care well but gave his best thumbs up as Eddie set the materials and posterboard in a corner. “I’m going to drive Eddie home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A raised eyebrow. “... Alright, well, that’s good. It’s gotten dark. The two of you get home safe.” Eddie’s horror only met the sub’s back and Richie put a hand on the small of his back, picking up the other’s bag easily with a lazy ‘night’ as they exited the classroom. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they walked, Eddie opened his mouth and Richie only patted his head. “Don’t even try to get yourself out of this one, baby.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop calling me that. I’m walking home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie gave him a meaningful stare and then moved his hand so that it was on the back of Eddie’s neck. “I’m driving you home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you so against? You already owe me, this is on your tab--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t owe you </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen, baby.” Richie got him outside and turned under the one sputtering campus light near its gates. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If this is about you being scared I’m gonna pin you in the back and fuck you until the truck’s rockin, we don’t have to worry about that right fucking now, alright? In fact, I just had a pre-dinner show watching you squirm and try not to cream your fucking panties.” Taking advantage of Eddie’s wide-eyed stare, he ruffled his hair again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll talk details about that dick appointment later, alright? But right now, you’re climbing in, we’re getting food, and then I’m gonna drop you off and you’re going to say thank you as sweet as fucking pie and that’s the plan. Okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie didn’t agree but did climb into Richie’s car when the other opened the door for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a mistake to trust this stranger who was not his Richie, who only wore a resemblance of his face, borrowed his dumb glasses, used his stupid laugh, but the stump that was the passenger’s seat held him just the same, and he let himself lean a warm cheek against the cracked leather of the headrest. A cassette tape played something unfamiliar and disjointed with rumbling guitars and a bass that sounded too synthetic to be real. The percussion tapped a steady beat that his mind drifted off to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie didn’t touch him for the rest of the car ride.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they pulled up to his street, the truck smelling like grease and cigarettes, the dark-haired driver gave him the nearly empty cup of fries, ketchup staining his teeth red as he squealed off and left the teen a block from his house, looking lost, confused, and restless.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>what? sometimes you get horny.</p><p>how's the burn going? persistent? really?? might I suggest... an ointment. [haphazardly plugs my new fanfic]<br/>anyways, I'm having a good time. if you're having a good time, uhhhh, tell me. I'd love to know.</p><p>okay thanks, love you, bye--<br/>xoxo</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. breaking rules</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>there is a universal situation observed and known as fact: the wolf runs when the rabbit screams, but never expects to scream and run. we will witness some screaming and running.</p><p>[ as in: authorial intent is to drop hints then giggle, walk away ]</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Secrets are binding things. They’re not typically dangerous in their nature-- a truth of reality. It’s the concealment, the very act, that makes it suddenly very delicate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie was a delicate person because any secret could cause an explosion. His secrets weren’t relationship-ruining but life-ending like the underwater mines Mike had been talking about over lunch the other day. It was the threat that made him sick at night, had him breaking out into a cold sweat that made his sheets damp when he woke up the morning after Richie had dropped him off. Knowing that what happened was a secret- knowing that he was collecting secrets more and more with every year.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With every month.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He accepted a few dates from Stanley after the young man riddled off the medicinal qualities he promised they had. Mike’s eyes had been searching for bruises or stings, Bill’s eyes watching for something else, the moment they’d all gathered for lunch on Wednesday. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His recounting was simple, came without practise. “It was half what we expected,” Eddie told them. “I was alone for most of the time. He came in the last 20 minutes, did his usual heckling thing, and… helped me clean up some of the supplies.” It was accentuated with a confused shrug and he took a bite of his sandwich, shaking his head. “Everything happened pretty fast.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone knew each other a little too well. Stanley, formerly so close to Richie, squinted-- Bill looked contemplative but otherwise stoic. Mike’s eyebrows raised and settled slowly, carefully, in the following silence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie wanted to shift but he was good at lying. A lie has to be placed perfectly with just the right amount of truth, the right amount of simplicity, that it’s nature goes unpressed. Unemphasised. People who reported the news didn’t repeat it when the crowd got quiet, but let it lay, because it was a piece of reality. No, he stayed quiet. Didn’t press. Let them digest as he made work on the cucumber sandwich he prepared. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bill cracked first, reaching for his water bottle as he spoke. “W-Well, I’m g-g-glad to hear y-y-you av.... that y-y-y-you avoided any issues.” Taking a drink, he started cutting into the mystery meat lunch. That was one kink out; when Bill relaxed, others typically followed. Stanley rejoined him with, “told you so” and Mike seemed to nod and let it lie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie’s hands were remarkably sweaty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because you shouldn’t lie to your friends. You shouldn’t lie to the people that saved you, that looked out for you, but he was. He was keeping secrets, he was lying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you have to do it again today?” Mike asked with a concerned line settling on his forehead. Eddie was distantly wondering if it would ever manifest into a real wrinkle (knowing Mike’s perfect skin, age marks wouldn’t exist) as he answered with a shrug initially. Realising the sort of question being asked, a yes or no, the flutist settled on a shake of his head. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Y-y--- are you okay?” Rushed though it was, Bill’s clearness was also then radiated across the table. “Y-Y-You have th-thee-ese d-dark…” He rubbed under his eye while staring at his friend inquisitively. Dealing with Bill was never as hard as Bev or Mike, who sought openly. The added element that ratcheted up his difficulty was Bill’s essential, core knowledge of his friends. Of Eddie. How many years Bill had spent to know Eddie’s tells, to spot him revving up for some ardent deflection, made him formidable and looking into his caring and soft eyes had the oher nauseous. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What, I look like a fucking skunk?” Eddie scowled. “Trying to make me self-conscious of </span>
  <em>
    <span>dark circles</span>
  </em>
  <span>? They’re hereditary!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stanley piped in from doing his homework. “Those are eyebags.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“N-No offense meant, Eddie,” Bill laughed quietly but didn’t relent. “But s-s-seriou-seriously, did… are yo-you sleeping? L-L-L-Like, sleeping </span>
  <em>
    <span>well</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>How does Eddie talk about it? Fitful sleep with rosy hands. It felt like time suspended itself before he went with another shrug and looked down at his small container of applesauce. “Just things between Mom and I.” He didn’t look up, but felt the gentle pat Stanley gave his arm and Bill’s foot nudging his own under the table. His eyes were getting glossy but he swallowed the urge back, down, sniffed once and looked up with a shrug. “It’s whatever. I just can’t wait to get this shit over with,” he amended, looking around the filled lunch hall with kids.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cheers to that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you guys thought about what you’re going to do?” Stan asked, clinking his water bottle with Mike’s. Eddie sometimes wondered if the tables were always that small or everyone had just gotten the extra limb growth where getting up was no longer necessary. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bill shrugged. “G-Go-Going to st-s-start apps for…” he waved his hand. “Wherever. M-M-Maaaaybe, B-B-B, Boston?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Boston? Why Boston?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pretty?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie felt the invisible electricity where Stan and he both </span>
  <em>
    <span>would</span>
  </em>
  <span> have looked at each other but instead supplemented it for staring with bland expressions at the increasingly flustered expression on Bill’s face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think Boston’s a really nice place. I was interested in going there, too,” Mike rejoined the conversation after finishing up the rest of his meal, and Eddie and Stan went “mmmm” with equal levels of nodding and smile-hiding. Boston, sure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe that’s what made him feel worse; how his friends had just accepted it so easily, Eddie’s mood and reasons. But it seemed easy-- to lie and hide it away. He couldn’t imagine what either person would have to say if they discovered that secret shame of his. Richie’s eyes and lips, the taunting voice, it was bored into his head and it was like the decisions he made now were out of the conscious effort to make sure that nothing unraveled. That nothing was seen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the end of the day, he got to meet Stan up at Drama Club. Tentatively, his work with Stan was paused but he still wanted to show support- and asked their instructor if progress could be made on the posters that were started the day before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was more lenient when it came to seeing his open participation. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pity</span>
  </em>
  <span> his brain offered. </span>
  <em>
    <span>She pities you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even if it made Eddie tense, the more important thing was trying to go through life normally. He sat near Stan’s station as he and some seniors got to painting their weapons and adding new pieces or parts to build up the form. There was a systematic approach to the shaping and finishing involved with the department that made his friend seem so peaceful and open. It hadn’t occurred to him how much of a social life Stanley Uris had outside of the Losers. The seniors spoke with him with familiarity that spoke to months of established friendship. They had inside jokes about ribbing and fixative, about the Steps and Codes of Drama. Eddie’s position matched how he felt; balanced on the fringes, orbiting haphazardly. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What are you going to do</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What a dizzying question. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was only ever graduate then leave. But he actually didn’t know where he’d go; he looked at college brochures like fairytales and pipedreams, the inconceivable ‘can you imagine’ of smiling students in gothic buildings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they were younger, Richie--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well. Richie said a lot of things. Dwelling on all of their promises was ridiculous to do because Richie had already broken several, maybe a total of 19, a number suitably indivisible and starch. 19 broken promises. But thinking about that was ridiculous, too. Thinking about Richie, thinking about what-ifs. Everyone had their own lives and devised their own plans. Everyone was going their own way. Realising he had done nothing but stagger behind his friends, gripping onto a shirt sleeve or two, had Eddie staring off as he carefully inked the bold letters for the poster. He didn’t know what he was doing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan’s parents were picking him up so they could go out to eat. It was someone’s birthday and they were going to spend it at the Chinese place in town. Eddie stayed on the curb talking to them for a little before time pressed and they made their exit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Walking home alone, Eddie began to think that it might be time to start fending for himself. There was a whole big wide world out there that people were already thinking about their place in; he assumed that getting a degree would be his ticket out. But maybe it wouldn’t be so simple. Once he left, what would he do and where would he go? He would be alone, wouldn’t he? Forget so much about his life at Derry. Even Bev’s letters stopped coming. Realising that his life had been lived with short-sight and thin dreams, the flutist ran a weary hand over his neck and tried not to choke on a cry. God, he was miserable. Confused, conflicted, dreading his home, dreading his bed, where not even his dreams would let him lay in peace. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the turn past the cornerstore, Richie’s truck was stalled off the side. Eddie felt himself slow but didn’t stop. There didn’t seem to be anyone in the truck and the sign-plastered glass obscured his vision some. Short on thoughts and hard-pressed to acknowledge the ‘why’ behind what was happening, Kaspbrak jogged across the street and narrowly avoided the new onslaught of cars that were just pulling up from the green an avenue down. He walked forward to the glass and peered inside without concern of being caught.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was no sign of Richie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tried to spot curly hair or a stupid denim jacket, maybe someone at the front attempting to haggle cigarette prices, but it was plainly empty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a few minutes, he just let himself look inside. The white lights inside shone brighter now that evening came with less delay. His breath spread in short pools against the glass and Eddie wondered when it would snow. He pulled away a little to collect his thoughts, then caught something, turning with a guarded frown to look up at the approaching teen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sight of him was arresting in a morbid way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus, Rich, what the fuck happened?” Harshness didn’t disguise the immediate burst of concern that had the shorter male moving forward with a hand outstretched. Richie looked like he meant to flinch away, eyes holding on Eddie’s hand as he leaned away from the touch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tried to get a little more experimental with your Mom, but man, the laws of gravity are really something because--” There was cotton shoved up both his nostrils that left him sounding congested, voice thick like phlegm would be rocketed up at any minute. Along with the red eyes and bruised cheek, Eddie could summarise someone’s ass had gotten kicked. He didn’t know if Richie was the loser yet but judging by the mounting swelling, his guess would probably win him at least ten bucks. He made a harsh noise and motioned 'cut.'</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Beep beep; you’re not funny,”he grunted briefly before making a grab for Richie’s face. “Lemme see--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie’s head jerked back again and his face was furious in a way that had Eddie balking. “Lay the fuck off, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eds</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I don’t need your grubby window-hands on my fucking face.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richard Tozier didn’t pull away from Edward Kaspbrak. The fact he </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> made the shorter teen look lost, then cross, then positively pouty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you want me to look at you and watch your shitty mismanagement turn into festering, puss-ridde who knows what?” he shot back. Richie’s snort was instinctual and it had Eddie snatching his wrist and using all his weight- which he realised, developed. Richie didn’t budge at first but staggered then was yanked like a tug-of-war into Eddie’s tight hold. Between dragging his Mother around and working those stupid oddjobs, maybe he’d managed to build… something. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it also told him Richie was not as mass-heavy as he had imagined. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His shoulders had grown and his muscles were there. But he was still the same lanky Tozier with gangly, flimsy wrists. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It surprised him how easy it was to break the stubborn streak in the other. He caved easily into direct action and when they got to his car, Eddie led him to the back and opened the door. Richie scowled at him and pushed him in first before following. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Were you just creeping back here in your stalled car like a weirdo?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi, yeah, asshole, can I not relax and listen to my fucking music and snack? Nail me to the cross for enjoying some alone time in </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> car-- I know the concept isn’t relatable to you-- OW!” Eddie released his hold on Richie’s wrist and immediately found the other’s face inches from his own. “That </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking hurt</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie looked solemn. “Duh. So are you going to make me do that everytime or what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dude, fuck you.” But he relented and Eddie opened his backpack to pull out the fannypack he’d unclipped earlier in the day. It had the basics of everyday falls, hits, burns, and amputations. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They worked in Richie’s uncomfortable silence. Eddie didn’t feel dismal because of the quiet so much as the roaring anxiety that yesterday’s memories churned in his stomach. Richie had already set his own nose and it was tender to the touch. The tissue wasn’t too bloody but Eddie replaced them with torn pieces from his cotton balls. “I’m going to put the antiseptic on,” he warned as he began prepping the sanitary napkins with his mini-bottle. He’d picked it up from the pharmacy ages ago and though the memories associated with the purchase made his skin crawl, it was very handy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, nursery-poo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie rolled his eyes and placed the pad on Richie’s bruises. The immediate inhale was sharp and he made an unconscious hushing noise, trying to be as tender as possible as Richie murmured a ‘oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>’ under his breath. He’d never been the best with pain. And probably barely listened to Eddie when he listed off medical procedurals (although he did set his arm right)-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After he’d smoothed the antiseptic over the visible wounds, Eddie sat back and stared. “You’re such a baby.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie, gravely, replied, “Goo-goo. Gah? Gah. Waaa. Buhhhh.” It was the accent; like the recitation of a fireside chat or those science-fiction radio shows they snuck and listened to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie watched him. He didn’t look wary like he’d been by the corner store, but some sort of emotion that seemed caught between two worlds. That Richie he could remember seeing. The absurdity caught up with him and Eddie could feel it like an itch, a sneeze, and gave a little start. Then, snorted. “That was so fucking stupid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had never sat down properly, butt cushioned by his calves and head brushing against the sagging fabric from Richie’s roof. It made him taller than the slouched boy whose car he was currently in. Looking at him, their eyes nearly even, any smile that was there smoothed until he was staring at Richie with the same blank intensity the other gave him. They both sat like perched animals trapped by some unknown sight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want some french fries?” Richie asked, sounding too loud, and Eddie responded with raised eyebrows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“... Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>They dined in the Sonic parking lot because Burger King’s parking spaces were too small for Richie’s stupid truck. Eddie had started to shiver mid-way and Richie silently passed him a denim jacket that had been thrown into a shitty cardboard box on the car floor. It smelled disgusting and its whereabouts were incredibly suspect, but the inside was fur-lined. So he had to accept it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie was careful how he ate and didn’t touch the french fries. They watched each other in the cold truck as music buzzed in and out of hearing range, set low. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Salt stinging his lips, Eddie tapped the side of his head. “Your glasses are crooked.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As if snapped from a sated stupor, Richie twitched alive and touched the indicated spot. “Oh.” He tried to readjust them but it seemed to tilt strangely; he glanced at Eddie quickly before taking them off and squinting hard. “Goddamit. They got bent up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie scooted closer, careful not to disturb their food and trash. “It doesn’t look bad. You can heat them up and bend them back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie looked at him confused and Eddie deadpanned, “Seriously? Smoking since 12 didn’t know that? Just use a lighter or match and heat up the plastic parts to try and bend them. And it’ll fucking, I don’t know, soften up a little. Not that it goes into a putty consistency it just can bend if you treat it gently.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you know that?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tough question. How’d he learn that again? “... I don’t know, I think Bev showed me a trick or we found out together at some point when I was making the. You know. The racing stuff.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now that Richie didn’t have his glasses on, Eddie was left to absorb the full force of what was his maturing ex-friend. There had been plenty of times he’d seen the other without his spectacles but those had been instances from years back, now. The lenses were so thick that he could see the very faint line of where the prescription settled or something like that. Richie needed new glasses. He couldn’t imagine how much better the man would look with them, and that was a dangerous thing to do, make Richie Tozier even moe attractive, but he needed them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“... Does Bev still talk to you?” Eddie asked quietly, his thoughts too loud for comfort now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie grunted and put his glasses back on. “She sends letters.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?” The answer felt a little painful. But Eddie was happy to know Bev stayed in contact with at least of them of. “That’s cool.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She doesn’t address them to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie ate a handful of onion rings. “They’re not </span>
  <em>
    <span>for</span>
  </em>
  <span> me. They’re just… ‘Dear ‘Person Who Gets These’. That kinda thing.” He didn’t feel the need to elaborative, obviously, so Eddie pressed.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What does that mean. I don’t know what the hell ‘that kinda thing’ is, so… Explain a little more. Like, is she addressing them to the household as a general?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie’s long-suffering sigh was not like him, at </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It aged him into a 50-something and Eddie looked surprised at the tired glare he received. “It’s for my address. She just… doesn’t address them to me. She doesn’t-- it’s not a big deal. You didn’t ask for the details, you wanted to know if we still talk and the answer’s yes. We do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, that leaves a shit ton of questions--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not a goddamn answering machine, “leave your message at the beep,” type shit, Eds, jeeeeesh. Can a man even enjoy his burger in peace?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie rolled his eyes for the upteenth time. “One, your voices have gotten stupidly solid for you to be using them for bullshit purposes-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>two</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you already finished your burger, now three, why are you snapping at me? I just wanted to know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m snapping at you because you’re out of the blue asking me about everything going on with Bev and it’s random--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not random!” Eddie slammed his fry box down on the stupid seats and their stupid musky scent. “I just wanted to fucking know! It’s not like I can waltz up and ask you at any old time, Rich.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The response was a narrowed set of enlarged eyes. “You’re right. You can’t. I guess I can’t blame you for what time you choose-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my god.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To bring up whatever </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> want to talk about but I--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie continued eating his fries. “Bev stopped sending me letters, so I’m just </span>
  <em>
    <span>happy</span>
  </em>
  <span> to know she’s sendin you letters. Jesus. Sorry for breathing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They got quiet again, Eddie finishing the rest of his smaller meal and running through different exit plans in his head when RIchie decided to speak again. It lacked the budding heat and undercurrent banter, just an earnest admission:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tozier reached inside of his milkshake and pulled out the two cherries that it came with. “Bev would have never stopped writing you if it was her conscious choice.” He didn’t react when Eddie’s facial expression became openly confused, instead had the nerve to look even bashful. Snapping the steam, Richie placed one into Eddie’s empty water cup and put the other between his lips. “And I can’t get into the why, and I can’t get into how I think this or whatever, but that’s the truth and it’s plain. So if you’ll ask me anything, make sure it isn’t redundant.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay. Why did you take me out for fries?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie paused at that and then shrugged. “Doctor’s gotta pay his nurse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hospitals pay nurses, dickweed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, well, I’m not going into vocational nursing fields so I guess everyone’s dodging their special bullet.” Richie winced as he said it then scooted back to stretch his legs out. Eddie swatted at them when they nudged past his body to settle against the car door. Quickly scooping up their trash, he dumped it into the Burger King bag on the floor then hastened to put a hand under the other leg trying to encroach on his space. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re going to block me in, cut it out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get out if you don’t like it then. Papa’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>stuffed</span>
  </em>
  <span>, got the post-dinner neurosis.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not the definition of neurosis, you asshole.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t know what I’ve got goin’ on in here, Eds.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie’s tongue played with the cherry stem in his mouth as he grumbled, “not like you tell me shit to start with.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The car was silent then. An uncomfortable, truly nerve-wracking silence. Eddie considered just asking Richie to drop him off then but the other spoke, voice squashed and spread uneven from lying on his back. “... Man, what the fuck happened, y’know.” Richie’s laugh was bitter (he had always been bitter, easy to get sore, kept his bruises, but he </span>
  <em>
    <span>sounded</span>
  </em>
  <span> downtrodden) and shortly after lying down, the mop of black hair popped up as Richie pushed up on his arms. “You don’t tell me shit either. You don’t talk to me period. You didn’t talk to me, at all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie felt betrayed, swayed by food into a trap. “Yeah, well, you didn’t talk to </span>
  <em>
    <span>anyone</span>
  </em>
  <span>. After all that bullshit happened, you just split off--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everyone split off--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not what I mean, and you know it, Richie, what I mean is you </span>
  <em>
    <span>cut</span>
  </em>
  <span> communication. You cut ties!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you didn’t even try to reach out!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, like I’m supposed to fucking chase after you like some dog--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, well, I’d like </span>
  <em>
    <span>one</span>
  </em>
  <span> thing between us to be fucking mutual around here!” Richie surged up and Eddie marveled at how he’d just about taken up the full length of his truck’s backseat. “Like, what the hell, you expect me to walk behind you with my dick in my hand as you berate me for beating on Bill, berate me for not talking about Bev, as everyone gets </span>
  <em>
    <span>pissed</span>
  </em>
  <span> at </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span> for-- f, for looking out for you! It’s always ever been me chasing after you like some fucking dog, Eddie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not true.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is true”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re lying, it’s not-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s true, don’t start acting like you’ve got the goddamn vapors. It’s the middle of Autumn.” Richie shoved him but it wasn’t unkind. He looked-- striking in his sadness, in his attempt to still make a stupid reference at this emotional point. Eddie was reminded of all the old shows and obscure movies Richie quoted and smiled. He didn’t realise he’d started crying until the tear fell into the crease his mouth had formed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie blubbered then groaned, putting his head in his hands. “Don’t do stuff like that. You can’t frame big things with stupid jokes. It’s emotional whiplash which is a form of assault.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He dragged them off his face to stare at Richie. At least he looked chastened, maybe regretful, but the conversation had already begun. “You should be berated for beating up Bill.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was pissed he let you ever enter that murderhouse. That... That day was bullshit. The whole thing is bullshit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie was shaking his head even as Rich spoke, inched closer in the space between Richie’s legs. “There’s no way any of us could have known, Rich. And Bill, he was regretful of it-- he didn’t want any of us to get hurt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie shook his head and sounded lost. “But </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> did. You got hurt. What was I supposed to do, brush my hands off and… fucking let it be? I was angry that he-- that </span>
  <em>
    <span>I,</span>
  </em>
  <span> that I, everytime--” his voice was getting thick. “I can never save you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rich.” Eddie put a hand on his thigh and squeezed. “It was just a broken arm. Kids break their arms falling down stairs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unfathomable, was the look Richie gave him. This searching, long-dead look, something that seemed like watching a fire battle being extinguished. The other’s shoulders sagged and he broke the contact, bumping Eddie’s hand off as he pulled his knee up and left the other extended. “Anyone that hurts you, I’ll rip their heads off.” Eddie stared at him. “I wanted to kill that clown. Rip him into nothing. But Bill? Bill, you always-- everyone, they saw him as this leader. I don’t make allowances just because Bill’s my friend, he still led to you getting your </span>
  <em>
    <span>literal</span>
  </em>
  <span> arm broken. Can’t believe of all things, you’re calm about your arm being broken.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t believe you’ve held a grudge for this long over a broken arm--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s NOT just </span>
  <em>
    <span>a</span>
  </em>
  <span> broken arm, goddammit!” Richie’s anger flipped and Eddie in any other situation would be the person to reel him in, calm him down but Richie rarely got angry with him, their spats were child’s play-- take a walk around the playground then make up, run back to the house then a few hours later talk. Richie’s hair was wild, his teeth bare and neck taunt. His body looked like it was going to snap in different directions.  Never this kind of explosion because it wasn’t that Richie </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> angry, he thinks. It wasn’t anger at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie didn’t know what had plagued his friend between then and now, but seeing its effects made him reach out and cup Richie’s cheek. The reflexive flinch away had him pulling back but then the contact was happening, the bruised skin cradled just barely in the palm of his much smaller hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t know what to say. Inched forward and lied, “I know,” and let it happen, because it seemed like maybe Richie needed this. Felt their chests meet and kept his hand on Richie’s cheek as they exchanged a hug.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To compare it to Stan’s would be unfair because the contexts were so incredibly different. Similarly, Eddie could not say he enjoyed the hug. It was awkward and mostly one-sided as Richie’s free arms were allowed to circle him fully and squeeze him. The pressure crushed his full stomach but he let it happen, let Richie squeeze him to death as long as it was needed. The exchange was brief but when they parted for some space, years between them seemed to be squandered by that action alone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie’s swelling was getting worse. Eddie remained encircled in his arms and had to whisper, “I really have to pee” before being allowed to scoot back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once the two clambered into their respective front seats, the music was turned up and they were on their way to the Kaspbrak household. Depeche Mode was playing (turned down once they approached residential spheres) and when Richie parked, Eddie turned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you for the food, Richie, and the ride.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The driver looked back at him with that hard-to-read expression, caught between 17 and 50. Eddie leaned forward and pressed his lips too hard to Richie’s cheek. Bag over his shoulder, the teen clambered out and made a shooing gesture.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie flipped him off and tore down the road as he was wont to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie would describe more as turning tail and running. But he could add that to their secrets.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>remember the time-weird thing I mentioned way in the beginning? yuh<br/>so<br/>I'm not saying I'm making this into a series but I am saying there's something in the works already that's connected hello hi mmmm bye. okay thanks</p><p>tell me what you think, tell me if you hate it, refuse to say anything at all-- I honour your decision.</p><p>kudos and comments are appreciated and constantly astound me.</p><p>also reach me at @<a href="https://twitter.com/rhysses?s=09">rhysses</a> on twt, i made one</p><p>ok love you bye--</p><p>xoxo</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. they call it manifestation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Eddie breaches some sensitive topics and realises how the world functions outside of him (save for one instance.)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Did you know? Steinback asked Stan out.”</p><p>Eddie was sitting curb-side with Mike at the library. It was a Saturday morning, Bill had something on reserve to pick up and also needed to retrieve a notebook from lost and found. Apparently he was beginning to make a habit of forgetfulness if not closely monitored, so absorbed in other matters (which were all studious, surely) that things went by the wayside until he remembered, obsessively bemoaning the loss.</p><p>He could tell Mike wanted to gauge his reaction but Eddie didn’t know how to react. The news struck him as hard to understand at first (<em> who? </em> ) then he learned more clarity ( <em> Maggy, second chair, Steinback</em>) as the thoughts slowly developed into a confusing cloud of betrayal and apathy. “Huh.” He considered a ladybug ambling by and laughed good-naturedly. “Well I’m glad I didn’t make that fucking bet; Operation Courtship turned out to be right all along.” Something in his chest felt heavy-- this kind of strained knot. </p><p>Mike smiled as he spoke. “Yeah, you’d think all these times of nothing really happening, it would just be a joke. Maybe we manifested it to the point it turned real.” </p><p>Eddie nodded, trying to breathe through that muddled pain, eyebrows knitting. “Gross, our like, combined powers of imagination are that strong?” </p><p>“Is it so hard to picture?” When Mike looked at him, it made Eddie want to boldly denounce whatever sad thought of the past he was having, whatever shared knowledge he always treated so arcane and fundamental. <em> Look where it’s gotten us </em> he’d shout. <em> Our fucking imagination is nothing combined when half of us are on the outskirts.</em> But that wouldn’t be fair, and it wasn’t exactly true, and Eddie always got sick when he thought about what happened. So instead of answering, the boy hummed and dropped his eyes to the asphalt. Gave it a second before he groused “Where the fuck is Bill?”</p><p>“He should be coming soon.” They both turned to look back at the library, waiting for it to spout arms and indicate Bill would only be a minute longer, but that wasn’t happening. Obviously. Eddie looked at the affection ghosting near Mike’s lips, quirked just barely into a smile that had the knot in his chest tighten.</p><p>It seemed more illicit because it was so obvious to him now. Didn’t know when it happened, how, but they were obviously dating-- <em> obviously</em>. The hugs they exchanged dipped from comfortable to weighty. They spoke in secret codes that needed hours of prior knowledge to deconstruct and no one else had access to this knowledge because it was all in private conversations, private moments, a language that developed from the advent of liking someone so much the slider from friendship to love was graceful and unnoticeable. Anyone that could look would see it, in the way Mike rose immediately at the tuft of brown hair just in the shadows of the library door, how they jogged forward, magnetised, and stopped themselves short with too much fondness. </p><p>He pretended he did not see it. </p><p>Instead, Eddie got up as well and threw his hands up, bewildered. “Hello! ‘I’ll just be five minutes’ turned into, like, ten hours! What the hell did you put on reserve, the entire erotic section?” </p><p>Bill indicated his satchel, now variably stuffed with volumes of whatever he was working on. “Se-Secret pro-project work,” he winked and then continued, tone wistful. “I-I-I act-tually got to t-talk to Barbara, y-- yooouu remember her right?” They both nodded. “W-Well, I w-was ju-just catch-- catching up, and ch-c-- talking to her, abo-about school, new r-ruh--reads and B-Ben.”</p><p>“Oh, how’s Ben doing? Did she ask you or tell you?”</p><p>“We both ha-had a sh-- shared amount of kno...knowledge on that f-front,” Bill replied as he collected his bike and started walking with them. It was to Mike’s today, seeing as his place was just down the road. “I-I’d t-t-toold her the last I… I-- heard, from Ben, sh-she mentioned h-his letters p-pettered off.” The teen shrugged and looked down the street with a squint, mouth open and posed to speak as the words gathered. </p><p>“...It w-was just weird. Fo-for him to.. S-st-stop writing us.” </p><p>Eddie remembered Ben’s letters. He’d either send them to Bill or Stan, and the locations totaled to three different addresses. They hopped around for a bit after moving from Derry; the last they’d read, things looked promising to settle somewhere in Connecticut. Richie had said, <em> “I mean, hell, just go all the way, New York is quite fucking literally right there” </em>-- Eddie wondered if they ever popped over there, where they finally made their bed. “Ben only left two letters after Bev left,” he remembers outloud and glances at the two. Fidgets. “I don’t know why I said that.”</p><p>“No, maybe he got discouraged-- seeing us all separate. Or busy.” Mike’s quick to add the amendment knowing Bill’s semi-sensitivity to remembering the fallout from years ago. They walked on, Mike seamlessly moving the conversation towards more agreeable directions. Once they got on the other side of the street, Eddie got his skates on and held onto Mike’s bike as they weaved their way back to his house. </p><p>In the small moments of exhilaration, where Eddie just needed to hang on and stay vigilant, he enjoyed the peace and easy laughter the wind whipped out of him.</p><p>With the season in full swing, there was no doubt the Derry Fair would come up. Even with papers and books spread out in the cramped quarters of Mike’s room, the subject seemed to always float up. They gossiped like women (“men in business none their own” his mother would have scorned), speculating on rumours that had been floating around town. </p><p>Eddie thought about Stanley Uris and Margarie Reynolds Steinback.</p><p>He’d been showing up to their band practises more, in an effort to show support-- Eddie thought. He got into friendly chatter with Ashley, the two boys trading stories about a Geometry class they’d been in. Maggie had joined their small group and gotten into a fine rapport. That day, blessed with easy conversation, made Eddie feel comfortable with the days that followed Stanley's visits. They all got along and there was a friend in the trombone section that joined in on small meetings and giggle-fits they got into.</p><p>“So what’s the plan of attack? I know the carousels are going to be packed, but I think we should all try our shot at the water guns.”</p><p>“N-No-Not if th-they rea-uhly got r-rid of them.” </p><p>Mike’s eyebrows drew together then his face flew into a laugh, stifled by his own hand. “Oh right, Richie’s stupid friend-- what’s his name? Linton? Something?’</p><p>“L-Lyde? Kylde?”</p><p>“Klyn-- <em> Clinton</em>, right! Eddie,” Mike roused his attention. “You remember Clinton? How he broke the water guns and the fair said it’d get rid of them because of the mess he made?” He was posed to laugh again, hand hovering over his mouth and smile wide, charming.</p><p>Eddie snorted. “Yeah, that stupid sack’a. What an idiot. He threw such a tantrum.” For his part, he’d kept his peace and focused on Bill’s notes about his essay. You had to tread cautiously with following Bill’s gentle criticisms because teachers often docked him for taking just a tinge too much in terms of literary freedom to employ prose. “You think they’re going to do the same thing this time around?”</p><p>“I sure fucking hope not.” In the comfort of his room, Mike sat like a king, legs spread balancing a textbook on his knee. “Not really in the mood- I’m seeing into the future here- to deal with that. He made the cotton candy operator leave his stand!”</p><p>“Oh is <em> that </em> why you had one empty cone?” </p><p>“I-I-I was wond--wondering! M-Mike, you sh-should have t-t-told me,” Bill’s eyes squeezed close in an effort to stemmy a giggle. </p><p>Rising sick, like he was going to barf. It was always like this now as his emotions rushed and twirled like a French parlour dance. Switching partners and swinging around in large shapes. Like he would burst into a stormy wind of crying and screaming and laughing all at once. And he could never easily pick one, grasping aimlessly until something stuck to his palm and he could yank his hand out of the whirl in his head. This time, he yanked out frustration, the equations within the textbook blurring fast when he stood.</p><p><em> Don’t freak them out </em> so he didn’t walk out without stopping, turning and trying not to look at the happy that was frozen into confusion on the faces of his two friends. “I’m getting hungry. Who wants me to grab some grub?” Mike stood up to assist him immediately, which Eddie hated; he learned to hate that kind of kindness- that quick helpful nature. Fucking prick.</p><p>They went to the kitchen in relative silence. Mike’s family always had good stuff; his grandparents kept a stock steady and the church often had food drives and events where leftovers had chances to get swiped. Considering the state of the bananas and an apple, Mike turned to look at Eddie, who was pretending to be interested in a can of soup after standing and doing nothing for three minutes. </p><p>“How’d you like some fritters? Sound good?”</p><p>Eddie shrugged and asked, “Want some help preparing them?”</p><p>Mike’s smile wasn’t an answer and Eddie distantly wondered if this is what Bill felt like, to buckle in the face of a god.</p><p> </p><p>He was mixing the sugar and spices into the banana mash. Mike had just taken the apples off of the stove top after letting them boil and soften to a gross looking mush. Eddie’s hands were a little raw from washing them so much during the initial kneading. Every curl of his fingers stung in a way that felt small and nice. He’d gotten into such a pattern that he didn’t register the weight of Mike’s question.</p><p>“‘Course I miss him,” he immediately replied and felt Mike soften. He didn’t really talk about Richie but had a great sense of people. Seemed to do yearly check-ins with Eddie now when the teen was in a tizzy, bouncing off the walls with no one to catch him, nothing to rebound off. He didn’t follow up with any response. The discomfort bubbles inside him.</p><p>The kitchen table squeaks as Mike leans against it. His head tilts in close to look into the bowl, and he puts a hand on Eddie’s hand to indicate he can stop. Eddie watches him take the bowl away and get a flat spatula to start dishing out little plops into a greased, warm pan. “I miss him, too,” he responded from across the kitchen. Didn’t see reason to hide it; hardly kept his voice down unless Bill heard. His transparency was a marvel. “He was a great friend and we all loved him. I’m sure we all still love him.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Eddie puts his palms on the floured half of the table. He’s rubbing his hands together to exert the emotion that’s making his breath quicken. The fritters start to sizzle and crackle. </p><p>“I think there’s still a chance we can reconcile.” </p><p>Eddie’s laugh is rude. He knows it is. “Yeah, reconcile. Optimistic to a fault, Mike?”</p><p>“This was a quarter of our lives. You really wanna leave highschool and go to… fuck who knows, without trying, for another piece-- another half?” It saddens him. That thought. Mike’s voice sounds clearer and Eddie’s sure he’s looking at him but doesn’t look up. Watches more of the sticky mush roll up into white, tries to breathe. “Eddie.”</p><p>He shakes his head. “It should be a two-way street. I’m not going to fucking grovel just because he’s pissed-” but that’s not the truth? Because now that he knows, it feels like a responsibility solely of his own. Fuck, he should have been there for him; imagining Richie’s rabid anger at <em> his </em> being hurt. At <em> his </em> own pain. Not Richie’s-- not wholly selfish. But so centered around Eddie that it must have seen like blatant betrayal for him to walk away with Bill. It was a betrayal.</p><p>He betrayed him.</p><p>Mike flipped fritters and waited for him to finish but Eddie didn’t. Turning, the brunette just tipped his chin up and went to wash his hands again. “I’ll get the plate ready.” </p><p>Obviously Mike wanted to continue the conversation but he’d learned not to press. It made Eddie want to cry with how much he wanted to shout his feelings but he’d learned how to cope, too.</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The fluctuation between warm to cold throughout the day forced Eddie to bring a jacket with him almost everywhere now. As he was getting up to leave, the scratchy cotton weave of Mike’s blanket left his skin sensitive to the bristling cold that had started to creep in. </p><p>Digging around, he unfolded the bulky square that deflated his backpack. “I’m going to head out now, lemme take the plate downstairs?” It didn’t smell like the pungent cigarettes stale from Richie’s car anymore but there was still this cologne dirt that hung off of it. It was way too big but at least the worn denim folded. He kept the cuffs like that constantly so he wouldn’t have to deal with another fifteen minutes of wrangling the material.</p><p>He took the plate with one hand and yanked his zipper up with the other. Turning to look at the quiet room, he stared at Bill’s open confusion and tilted his head. After a few more seconds, he got crowish. “<em>What </em>?” he snapped. </p><p>Mike looked between the two of them until Bill spoke. Something about his tone felt similarly guarded. “... Where’d  y-y-you ge-- get tha- tha-that from?” He tilted his chin sharply at his jacket and Eddie looked down at himself. How big it was, the too broad shoulders. Felt himself get cagey again as he answered, wracking his brain for any memory of Richie <em> ever </em>having worn something this big. But it was impossible. He had to have bought it from some second-hand place near the town center. </p><p>“I just have it, why? You want it or something ‘cause I’ll tell you right now, I have no idea where you can buy it.”</p><p>“No-- no, i-it’s... Y-Yea-- Yeah, I-I-I guess it ju-ju-just reeeeminds me. Of.” Bill swallowed, paused, practised that mouthing thing he’d been learning before continuing. “Reminded me of M-M-Mr. Went’s uhhh. Stuff.”</p><p>Oh, dammit. “It’s just a regular jacket.” Shit, fuck. He picked up his bookbag and was careful with the plate. “I’ll see you guys later,” he called as he went down the stairs. Mike’s grandfather was in the kitchen and he groused in his crotchety, kind way. </p><p>“I can wash it, Mr. Hanlon.”</p><p>“You’ll probably not get all that oil off, lookat how it’s smeared all in there. Lemme springkle some things on here and you can go on about your night.”</p><p>“Thank you, Mr. Hanlon, I really appreciate it.”</p><p>“Yeah, and get home fast. ‘s dark out, don’t wanna run into mongrels and shit out in the streets.”</p><p>“Yes, sir. Have a good night, Mr. Hanlon.” </p><p>He leaves out into the cold, immediately thankful he’d decided against the shorts. Eddie sits on the stoop to tie his skates on and tries not to freak out that he’s wearing Went Tozier’s jacket. The one he probably gave to Richie. Or, that Richie just took from home. It’s actually insane that he’s wearing it he feels moronic and dirty for savouring the smell of it, remembering the soft press that turned into a squeeze as the arm wound around the small of his back. In that disgusting, ugly truck.</p><p>Leaving early had merits because Bill liked Mike too much to cut time short. His house wasn’t too far, his parents didn’t acknowledge his presence that much. Eddie was further down the street and Richie would have been, too, but the trend that started was Richie’s vacancy and vagrancy. </p><p>It had been a year since he visited the Toziers. He said it was only right to do it; a wellness check, not prying, but a sense of honouring a code if that’s what made sense. And it did make sense. He couldn’t hog Went’s jacket when he had perfectly respectable ones. People had Dads to give them stuff and people had Moms to buy them stuff. You get tight for cash, you learn how to sew, you live more frugal. Easy. It was a principle.</p><p>He didn’t really even realise he was headed down until the wind started to make his eyes go watery. There was a shortcut that spat him out almost right behind Bill’s when he cut through McCarron. His Mom warned him that evil, bad things happened in parks at night but Eddie had yet to see what was wrong in a few men lazying around and enjoying the night time chill. Personally, he wanted to take a few night casts with his polaroid but there wasn’t time for that. Especially with his curfew looming overhead- the pressure increasing with this stop.</p><p>The diagonal cut, take a soft turn, then he was basically weaving between Bill’s house and the neighboring lot. Skating with snow was difficult but not impossible. Especially with the new wheels he’d installed.</p><p>Then he skips the crosswalk to his place, stays on the parallel street until he’s hitting the bottom. There’s the Tozier’s; Eddie never could forget the warmth of it with the lights on near constantly until 10. Then maybe just a few candles. Standing there, Eddie felt ridiculous, panting from the exertion that seemed to still his body. Not unlike the snow, he sat soft and melted at the Tozier doorstep. It was wrong to be here-- No, it wasn’t. It was just a fucking housecall.</p><p>Eddie had to do some backpack jostling to shrug the jacket off and pull it out from his pack. The cold shock plunged him into a fit of shudders but he dealt with it well enough, folding the stubborn jacket as neatly as he could over his arm. With a quick lick of his lips, the teen slowly ambled to the short front porch and balanced himself as he climbed the two steps. Switching shoes was impossible without getting his socks soaking wet; he could manage the idiotic theatrics of trying to walk in shoes meant for rolling.</p><p>Maggie answered his knocks shortly and looked amazed to see him there.</p><p>“Oh my goodness! Eddie, dear, hi. It’s, God, it’s late, what are you doing here? Is everything alright?”  The house smelled so good. It immediately yanked tears to Eddie’s eyes, where he was grateful for the cold to explain it away.</p><p>“Y-Yes, hi Mrs. Tozier. Umm, ev-everything’s fine-- sorry, it’s just a little--”</p><p>“God, you’re shaking. Dear, come in, let me take this-”</p><p>“Oh, that’s wh-why I came ac-tually, the co-”</p><p>“Oh, this is gigantic. Honey, you should have kept this on. Come, hush your fussing. Take your shoes off there and let me make you something to get you warmed up.” She fanned her hand at the side where the years haven’t changed the messy assemblage of toed off boots and sneakers. Eddie bends to unlace his skates and carefully takes them off. A part of him waits, eyes up the staircase and staring into the hallway. He waits for Richie’s pattering footsteps, which he always pretended not to hear, until the vibrating banister and mirthful nickname greeted him.</p><p>But nothing ever came.</p><p>He sat down at the kitchen table and let himself shiver. Warm burned cold into painful waves and prickles all along his fingers, toes, and throat. Maggie put down a mug of chamomile as she smiled at him. She didn’t look that different, maybe got a haircut. Still the same sweet Tozier. Richie definitely got her lips, full and rosy, and the almost masculine sharpness in her cheekbones. Looking at her almost felt wrong.</p><p>“So what’s this you were chattering about? I could barely understand you through those vibrating teeth,” she teased, sitting down across from him with her own teacup. </p><p>“It was just-- I had this jacket, and I was returning it because I was, like, I <em> am </em> pretty sure it’s Mr. Tozier’s?” Eddie watched her carefully to see what she made of the news. Her eyebrows went up and then smoothed, her face betraying nothing but kind consideration and surprise. </p><p>“Oh, Went’s coat. It did look familiar, I was wondering-- and there’d been this empty spot in the closet for who knows how. That wraps that mystery up!” She sighed and leaned back in her chair, gently rocking on its hinds. “Well, thank you Eddie. Honestly you could have kept it and we would have been none the wiser,” Maggie continued with a laugh. “But I’ll be happy if you suddenly find these little pearl encrusted hoops I realised I lost last week.” Her mischief came out in these private encounters. God, did he miss talking to her.</p><p>Instead, Eddie just grinned back. “I’ll see what else I can find, maybe they’ll drop on my head on the way to class Monday.”</p><p>She laughed. “Wouldn’t that be something! Raining jewels; I hope someone tells me so I can just stand outside with my apron and collect those dues.” Pulling on her dressing gown, she mimed the event and Eddie laughed with her. </p><p>The creaks downstairs were hidden by their chortling so he jumped, tea burning his hand, at the, “Well howdy-do, Mr. Kaspbrak.”</p><p>Went was still the same Went, thin face, thick eyebrows, serious face with bright eyes. “Having tea and crumpets without me, queen?”</p><p>“I thought you’d be slumbering by now, king.” Her chair lands with a soft thud and she goes to get up, but Went shakes his head and makes his way to the kettle himself. Eddie watches their easy banter. “Oh, he lifts his royal hand.”</p><p>“Don’t want those grubby kitchen-hands all over my wares and tools,” Went replies with a low chuckle.</p><p>She rolls her eyes at him and then motions to Eddie, a ‘look at this’ as she tilts her head at her husband then begins. “So you were eavesdropping, Mr. Tozier. Want to let our guest here know how grateful you are?”</p><p>Went leans against the counter in his flannels and salutes Eddie. “Your services are mysterious but very welcome, Mr. Kaspbrak.”</p><p>Eddie salutes back with his smarting hand. “Just doing my dues, sir.”</p><p>“Eddie,” Maggie leans forward and puts her hands around his that rest on the cup. “You should stay over for a little. Have you gotten to eat dinner yet?”</p><p>She knows the answer but he’s been in this game before and misses it. “No, I just finished studying at Mike’s, I was going to stop by and head home-”</p><p>“Studying works up <em> so </em> much brain power. C’mon, I’ll whip you up something really fast. Nonono, you will <em> not </em> be helping me. Went, move it or lose it, kitchen-hands are back in action!” She’s got a lot of energy as always and shoos him with animated arms. For his part, Mr. Tozier pours himself his tea while moving out of her way, rolling his eyes. Leans next to Eddie and mumbles, <em>“Women, right?”</em> before ruffling his hair gently. </p><p>“Magpie, I’m upstairs.”</p><p>“I’ll see you there eventually.” Maggie doesn’t look up from assembling leftovers and new food, dressing gown sleeves rolled up as she preps some pasta-meat mix. Went’s heavy footsteps make the floorboards bend and groan above them but quiet. Eddie sits by himself at the table until Maggie tells him he can go relax in the living room. </p><p>He wants to protest, go home, but lets himself head to the back of the house. There’s this garish olive and orange patterned armchair he’d always share. He sits there and pretends that time hasn’t passed at all. In this capsule of the living room, a large window looking out to the backyard, TV running some VHS tape of an old women’s show, it is believable. That this is another night where he can run around with Richie and then sleepover once Mrs. Maggie convinces his Mother-- or endures enough of her wheedling to promise he’ll come back by 7 the next day. </p><p>Richie will come down any minute and wrangle him until he’s in his lap, legs over the side, and imitate the detectives and fishermen that crop up in these old plots.</p><p>They’ll take turns in the shower. Richie will sit on the toilet as he washes up. They’ll argue over who takes the floor and who takes the bed, then sleep in a tangled mess. </p><p>Maggie brings him a plate of beefaroni which he accepts gratefully. She sits down on the loveseat and continues her soap, asking him about school, if he’s up to anything new. How’s band, what’s been going on in the friend group, how’s Stan, is he still having trouble with math, who he thinks killed the barber, does he want Richie’s old math notes? because they’re hard to understand but his grades</p><p>On and on. The television and Maggie’s sidebars. His cleared plate, which Maggie whisked away. The lukewarm chamomile. Bleeding into dreams of Richie’s fingers idly stroking through his hair, and he could imagine the warm body underneath him, Went’s laugh at a joke Maggie says, a hand under his shirt on his stomach, tips on PEMDAS. They are all there and his head lets him slip up.</p><p>.</p><p>.</p><p>.</p><p>Something wet drips onto his lips. Then pebbles on his cheek before rolling down. He shifts, skin fuzzy, eyes rolling around as he tries to open them enough to get what’s going on. But there’s nothing on his face. Oh, it’s a fan-- cool air sending little pieces of his body on the alert before they, too, understand. He grouses but his head falls back onto something soft again. Behind shut eyelids, a light very distantly slides snowy white and orange peaks into his otherwise black vision. Eddie rolls on his side to face the pillow and buries his face in.</p><p>He is in and out afterward. There’s a weight next to him; something scrapes by his ear; fingers run through his scalp and press down at his upper neck. More cold chills and a pinch to his nipples. He squirms at that and presses back but there’s no body there. Another sweep of unawareness until he’s waking up with a very accurate knowledge of how he’s fucked up.</p><p>Richie’s room is different, changed in the almost four years he’d been allowed inside. There are posters on the wall and a tapedeck rests on his desk. It’s not as clean as before. The wastebasket in the corner is slouched off balance and there’s a pile of books on his bookshelf, just a pile, with papers sticking out. His trash can is half filled with food and discarded crumpled schoolwork. The bare light highlights that most of the surfaces are developing some dust; it’s probably been a week since he last cleaned.</p><p>It’s been more than six hours since 8 PM was a thing and Eddie tries to quiet the rising panic, sitting in clothes that aren't his, probably caked in the filth from yesterday. Richie's room has been reconciled so he has a limited plan of action remaining. First, he starts with getting out of the bed.</p><p>Then, he walks quietly down the hall and turns on the shower. </p><p>The next part of his plan is blank once he's standing in a pair of Richie's trousers, waist rolled to fit his body, and a large turtleneck. He's stressed, doesn't want to face the wrath of home, warm and cold all at the same time. He wants to peel his fingernails off with his teeth and cry about how happiness has betrayed him again, how being <em>cozy</em> led to his demise just as quickly as it had come. But there was no form of exertion anymore. He couldn't run to Richie's and bother him-- he was already there and the essential part of that method was missing. </p><p>So Eddie settled on starting the next phase of his plan, which was titled 'stop being a useless fucking loser don't just stand there', by cleaning Margaret Tozier's entire kitchen. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>whoop forgot to add notes</p><p>hi here's another chapter, hope you like it. we're gonna be doing some time skips soon so strap in for that. </p><p>hmu im new in town: <a href="https://twitter.com/rhysses?s=09">rhysses</a></p><p>as always, kudos and comments leave me stunned and appreciative</p><p>ok thanks love you bye- <br/>xo</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. hunger</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>There are consequences for actions, again. This time, there is an attempt to amend these actions.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>cw: ed allusions, self-harm allusions, emotional damage through engaging in... questionable actions<br/>I think that's it.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Mommy, I’m okay --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eddie-bear I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>worried sick</span>
  </em>
  <span> I had </span>
  <em>
    <span>heart palpitations </span>
  </em>
  <span>from the stress! How could you do this to me!?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mommy.” Tearful. “It wasn’t bad, I just stayed over too long and no one wanted to wake me up it was a mistake! Mommy, I promise I didn’t mean-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“WELL YOU DID! I had to call Beatrice to take me to the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Emergency Care</span>
  </em>
  <span> because I was so worried and scared and my chest was hurting me so much! And now look at you! I can’t believe you’re acting like this, where did my sweet boy go?” She grabbed his cheeks as he blubbered, trying hard not to cry. “This isn’t my sweet little baby; who’s talking in your ear? Who’s making you like this!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No one, nothing, it was a mistake!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hours it had been like this. She would leave him in sobs, red and gasping into his pillow, until he was exhausted. As if noticing the rest that would take him, she would come back into his room and restart the process. News articles of missing children. Statistics and tolls. Remember him? Remember her? Well now they’re missing and </span>
  <em>
    <span>dead</span>
  </em>
  <span> and you could have been one of them. You could have died.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once she was satisfied, she settled downstairs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie thought of the dismal look on Mrs. Tozier’s face as he went to leave. How she’d tried to walk him home-- mentioned that they could run some errands beforehand. He’d stayed to help her wash the dishes after she’d baked pancakes but mostly stood fidgeting. He already did too much, she said. He’s done so much. The sentence itself spoke to more and he never realised he could hear when Maggie Tozier was distraught. But she kept a stiff upperlip about it and turned to him with her thinnest, biggest smile when she asked if he wanted some tea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie had been there in his truck to watch him walk out into the cool morning. He couldn’t see into the tinted windows and didn’t try to, either, with his backpack slung over his shoulder and skates tied in a knot held tight in his fist. He walked without seeing actually. There was no Richie in his parked car or Mrs. Maggie on the front porch with Went hovering behind her. There were no churchgoers packing into their cars and looking at his rolled pants and red cheeks. He went home. He went home and stayed there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His stomach was empty and cramped in hollow groans but he was limp with the need for rest. The room smelled like spit and salt. Eddie wondered distantly if he could die like this; if the hunger could swallow him so thoroughly, could snap into his bones and suck him dry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dramatics, his mother scorned. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You caught up in your dramatics</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was sick and frail and dramatic. A stupid little boy who had done an erroneous error. All the compliments he received for helping with props or doing the signs, they meant nothing. He didn’t deserve his third chair. He didn’t deserve his good grades. He barely had them; an idiot, a frail sickly idiot, who would fail high school because he couldn’t grasp Calculus. Never get into college. Could only </span>
  <em>
    <span>hope</span>
  </em>
  <span> for trade school. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wallowing felt good and bad at the same time; torturing himself with things he struggled against, using the stabbing sword for his own soft belly instead. Eddie wanted to lay here and starve. He wanted nothing more than to float in the colour haze of shame, anger, and bent enjoyment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cool breeze stirred his curtains. He was glad he did his work yesterday; the teen went in and out of sleep. Sometimes in intervals of five minutes. Sometimes thirty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he was coming out of another dreamless nap, the room felt different. His eyes groggily went to the window and stared uncomprehending at the boy sitting at his desk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie looked back at him belatedly but seemed to sense his stirring, having paused some action and remained posed before looking his way. They both looked at each other-- Eddie uncomprehending, Richie open and blank.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Speaking first, the other tapped a finger against one of Eddie’s textbooks. “This is bullshit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“... Why are you in my house?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because your textbooks are bullshit. And I felt moved to correct the bullshit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Weakly, with dry lips and an even dryer throat, Eddie mustered a simple ‘ah’ then relaxed back in bed. He didn’t have the stress management to deal with this. He listened to Richie shuffle papers and tap his fingers against the cheap cherrywood as he fell back into a sleep-mist. The next time he was woken up, not nearly as groggy but still confused. Richie held a finger to his lips since he was, well. Very much laying down on his bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you still here?” Eddie asked in a whisper and took the thermos Richie handed him without thinking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I want to be. Now drink,” he ordered and frowned at Eddie’s weak scowl. “Do it. You look… bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go fuck yourself, you squid-ink-oily-head-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, that and some. C’mon, drink. It’s Mom’s cocoa.” Eddie didn’t want to and Richie rolled his eyes and unscrewed the lid, tilted his head back and had a pull. “See? Regular temperature, very delicious, spiced like she does it now just-- Eddie, drink this. Now” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, Maggie Tozier did make mean cocoa. He remembered it from last night. His lips parted unconsciously and Richie held his chin and the thermos to help him drink. Even though he didn’t need it. Even though he made a fuss about it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he was done, Richie had the nerve to look relieved but consternated. “Your stomach was growling in your sleep, dude. So I bought chili fries.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That shit’s rancid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But it powers the body and the noggin. Let’s get to powering up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were merits to studying with Richie that he had forgotten. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He liked how Richie taught. He explained things frankly but still had a knack for making up wild and idiotic scenarios and worlds in which to really stretch a topic’s objectives and strategies. How he managed to characterise numbers was beyond him, but the word problems were maybe his favourite to endure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although he was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>bum</span>
  </em>
  <span> by every sense of the word, Richie scored near perfect in exams and was already in AP Statistics. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sitting on the floor, Eddie ate the lukewarm fries with prompting and listened. “See, your textbook is really fucking stupid-- I don't know why they're giving you these defunct editions but the way that you calculate raised powers is explained way easier in the Power Up Math Standard ones that I </span>
  <em>
    <span>guess</span>
  </em>
  <span> they're not giving you this year for maybe no reason." He had his hair tucked behind his ear in a way that obsessed Eddie and balanced the notebook on his knee, pencil held in that crooked way. "Did they even teach you the song for derivatives?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie's nose scrunched. "There's a song?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie's exasperation was expressed in the flutterbeat of his pencil bouncing against the paper. "Jesus, not even the fucking song-- lodi, hi, said hidilo, over to lolo?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You sound like a doowop hack."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Be serious here, Eds." But he was grinning one of those genuine smiles. "Eat some more fries." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie ate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mother had gone on her tear and he was sure she was asleep. With the cracked window and their secret activities, it almost felt normal. Reminded of that transported way their last few encounters had been, Eddie glanced at Richie's face as he looked over some work he'd done. The studying papers had been helpfully 'edited' and he was thankful for the tiny lifetime he'd gotten used to reading Richie's mangled penmanship. His script was spectacular and way easier than the bent angles that composed the plain print. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had a bunch of adages and acronyms for memorization. The blue pen scribbles pointed to diagrams and examples. Maggie was right; these were incredibly helpful, way beyond imagine, but hell if her son hadn't built his own system of shorthand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So when I'm doing… soh cah toa, these inverse properties are-- I'm not really sure I get it." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie scooted over and motioned for Eddie to pass the paper as he leaned in. There was a pen between his teeth that bore the time Eddie had not been cognizant of in chew marks. He was close and warm. Eddie felt bold enough to let his head fall just so close, peering at the paper with the other. It was a quiet intimacy and he waited, didn't immediately look up when Richie looked down. Instead, he was frowning at the instructions Richie had prescribed as a part of the derivative formulas. Only after careful pause did he finally tilt his head to look back at the measured gaze aimed at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pen was still between his teeth and being gnawed at frantically. Eddie felt bad for it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And wanted to be it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's like regular trig inverse rules. You're just applying derivative logic to it. So…" he struggled to look at the paper. "When d is over d-variable-x, times csc, you're going to have negative csc times cot."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Because when you think of it in terms of trig, you're going to have the bodies cancel each other. Like it's a hit order. You think Kablowsky is a rat and hire Cotter, pronounced with a 'u' to do the dirty work." His Russian accent has gotten better, even nuanced in its stereotypical villainy. "There's two guards in the way, both a Section C, Cscs for short. So Cotter has to survive but take out these two guys. Well, what's the natural enemy of these guards except their inverse-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I get it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah but you have to stay with me because these guards-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mmmmmiiiiiiigotit, I'm not sticking around for the blood and guts."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But that's the best part." Richie is smiling and Eddie is, too, although he tries to distract from the pleasantries with a shove. "Can't please an audience bent on hating my craft, I guess. You can tune in next week for the continuation."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs and feels bad for it. Feels evil for laughing after being so somber all day, after hating the male that smiles across from him. It's rusty too and Richie passes him the big gulp of lemonade he's been nursing for who knows how long.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie's sip is grateful as he watches Richie return to correcting small parts of his work. Once he's feeling better, the teen waits to ask, "How did I do?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie scratches his head then shrugs. "Honestly pretty good. You have a grasp on what you're doing. How you managed it from that-" he flicks the textbook "fucking thing I'll never goddamn know it's so backward. But you're good with the product and power rule. Your quotient corrections even look really good." It's such an earnest assessment that Eddie wants to sigh with the positivity. The agitation of his suffering is soothed which makes it burn hotter for some reason. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So that's when he asks, "Did you take me upstairs? Last night?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie keeps working but his brief pencil flick is a record scratch. He put it out there, though. Eddie watches him over the large Styrofoam cup until Richie is shifting and looking down at his lap. The refusal to make eye contact, a classic move. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why was he embarrassed? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie tried to quell his anger but it edged into his "</span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span>" which made Richie's head turn very fast.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why did I bring you upstairs?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah. Why'd you do that?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie huffed a short laugh and tapped his pencil. Brought the pen in his other hand to his mouth then thought better. It served as a flourish instead. "I don't know Eddie, I wanted to not fucking wake you up at 12 in the morning? Like, that's an obvious-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Then why did you dress me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Because you would have thrown a fit to wear your outside clothes to bed. I'm not gonna have my parents suffer through your vocal melt-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Shut the fuck up, Richie, that's such a weasel answer-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>weasel?</span>
  </em>
  <span> I'm a </span>
  <em>
    <span>weasel</span>
  </em>
  <span>  for telling you the truth?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Because you're only giving it to me in fucking… slices!" Eddie tried not to raise his voice but he felt hot, needed it, the glare on Richie's face as they edged toward each other in dangerous increments. "I-- you touched me, you dressed me--"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I have to touch you to fucking-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, that's not the </span>
  <em>
    <span>point</span>
  </em>
  <span> Rich!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Then what's your-" he wrangled his voice into a strangled growl, breathing hard through his flared nostrils "goddamn </span>
  <em>
    <span>point </span>
  </em>
  <span>what are you looking for? Fuck's sake now this time next week you're going to grill me why I'm helping you with math."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Good that you mention it, actually. Why are you helping me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Because you suck and I hate to see it--"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Richie, stop fucking lying that you give a shit!" He was whisper yelling and felt like throwing something soft to punctuate his frustration. To egg him on. "You corrected my notes without even me asking! What the fuck, and you climbed in here like what the fuck? What the fuck are we doing, Rich? Why did you </span>
  <b>
    <em>leave me</em>
  </b>
  <span> in your room, knowing I'd have to-- deal with the fallout? Why?" He was pressing, wild in his tone, and within seconds demanded shrilly, "Answer me!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie threw a hand up and let the notebook go off balance to land face down on the floor. "What the fuck am I supposed to </span>
  <em>
    <span>say</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eddie? What?" He was just as blazing. He craved it, the feeling of his rough hand gripping his arm, but didn't flinch at over-dark eyes staring at him. "Fuck your mother, why did you even </span>
  <em>
    <span>go</span>
  </em>
  <span> back? That you should have just stayed that I wanted you to? Maggie was practically ripped the hell up watching you march your ass back over here. What happened to shoving your foot up her ass the second you were close enough to an adult to do it?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He released him to drag a hand down his own face. "Jesus Christ, I can't believe you're starting an argument because I helped you out."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie stared at him with the weakened sneer setting small indents near his nose. "You didn't help me out. You left me with the fallout." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were still close but he could see the remorse making Richie's back a stunning arch. It took digestion before the other was sighing. "Listen, shit. I didn't want for all that to happen. I didn't mean to--"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, you did. And now you're back for the aftermath. You think it'll make up for it?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Jesus, Eddie. I just want to help you while I can. Fuck." Richie rubbed his face again and had that unfathomable expression that aged him. "I know I won't be shit useful however long from now, I just-- stop looking at me like that." The edge to his voice had Eddie's eyes hastily running along some invisible edge to safety but he fought the urge that his body sang for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took a second but be went forward on his knees. The other male glanced at him suspiciously and his eyes lingered on the turtleneck Eddie was still wearing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why are you pretending you don't give a shit?" He sipped the Big Gulp and let Richie look at his lips. "If you care about being 'useful'."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Things were quiet again. Just breathing and the distant outside world. Richie answered with a gravelly tone. "I don't want to give a shit and have it blow up in my face."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sip, eyebrow raise. "Why would it blow up?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Because it did before. And it will again. I know it will."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"How?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie looked perfectly still and he knew it was coming when his throat bobbed and he fidgeted. To run from it. Eddie wiggled the straw and held the Big Gulp out to his friend, because he was, his friend. Richie stared back at him in that expressive and vulnerable way. It was the culmination of glimpses. It was the fact he had crawled through his window, that he was here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other took the cup and then put it down. Eddie was caged against his bed and experienced the fourth kiss of his life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was not like the elementary and junior high dares. It was not the practise one he had done with Bill freshman year. It felt closer to the books his Mom burned in their backyard that she "saved" from the donation center. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie's lips weren't demanding but they were… full. They were imposing and a weight of themselves and Eddie shakily breathed into it with lack of knowledge on how to proceed except press back. The thing exhale had Richie doing a thing where he tilted and held Eddie's neck, just the side, and they kissed again and it -- oh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He kissed people before. Eddie thought of all the girls he'd overheard in association with Richie, imagined the things he did with his tongue, with his hands and fingers, and it was a disparity to the security of this kiss. It did not compare well to how deep it was. Sex was kissing and then some. How could he survive sex from the man who wanted to fuck him in the back of his truck when this was already falling, falling into the unfathomable deep that left Eddie clutching onto the other, winding fingers into his hair as they slid against the wood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ending the kiss seemed impossible. Pecks turned into long locks that lasted minutes more before they were trying to disengage again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie was dizzy. Richie was looking at him and watched with teary eyes and a smile as the friction was lost and Eddie fell back against his wood floor with a bare thunk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stared at each other. He didn't know what to say but held onto Richie, because he could see the flight response blowing his pupils, making him his chest quicken and he wanted to beg it just for safety. Beg him not to leave again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please don't leave me</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why'd you leave me</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abandonment when he was the one that left him. Where, in Richie's mind, he was always turning the other way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What had happened to make Richie so scared to care-- so against it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still holding onto the other's jacket, Eddie mustered up the courage to speak. "Your breath smells like a sewer full of nasty shit." He missed kissing. He already missed it. It happened fifteen seconds ago and he was horny for more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So does yours, Ed-baby."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Shut up."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie hauled him into a sitting position and looked awkward for once. His cool guy persona was fractured by the nervous fidgeting habit he'd gotten with pushing out his lips like he meant to whistle. The veins in his arms and hands stood boldly. "So."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Cah toa."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie's mouth was open when he laughed, startled, and fully accepted Eddie's muffling hand. He put his own over it and waited until they subsided to pull Eddie's hand off and kiss the fingers. "You're going to pass calculus."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Maybe."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Say yes or we're not kissing again."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Wow, go fuck yourself. Why would I want to kiss sewer mouth again?" Eddie made a face and fell, happily, selfishly, into another silencing. His moan slipped out excitedly as he was laid against the floor and in such close proximity, of course Richie heard it. Pulled back from the kiss to stare down at him with a look similar to their first school playdate as he stared up at him from the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Baby, I cannot fuck you right now. You wanna try not to be so needy?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie slapped his arm and Richie put a hand under his chin, butt of his palm pressed against his throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Let go of me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie did. Eddie didn't move and instead let his hair be played with gently. "Want to sit in my lap and finish up your homework like a good boy?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stop it. "I already finished it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You revised it." He was already being pulled up as the other sat back, looking at the smile. His Richie. It was his Richie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I didn't finish revising it. I erased what you did wrong, so do it over again like the smartass I know you are." His lap felt nice. His cock was hard. He put an arm around his middle as Eddie adjusted to stare at him sideways. "What? Want me to call you a good boy again? Gotta earn that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie rolled his eyes but couldn't say that he hated it. "It's stupid and I think you're stupid." He was handed the notebook and pencil, and shivered as breath fanned over his neck. Balmy and sticky. The cold air played between their warm bodies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're not going to leave?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I can stay the night."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mom will hear the shower turn on again."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snort. "Bet her thick ass won't get up, though. I know what will get up though."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Gross, asshole, still my fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mother</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"She calls me Daddy. You can c--"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Holy shit, beep beep."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was distracted but happy in this bubble in his room. Where it hurt to love this moment with Richie, to keep this secret, but felt just as good. Felt just as perfect. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I don't want to give a shit and have it blow up in my face </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I can never save you </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>useful to him how? what was the punishment for caring? But his dismayed thoughts were quelled with lips at his neck and he could pocket them, for now. He would hurt himself with them later.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i like it when they're happy, too, i'm not all doom and gloom!<br/>anyways hiiii, thanks for reading this. wow, you guys like this... very surprise for me. i thank you mucho.</p><p>kudos and comments are always amazing to me and very appreciated. </p><p>if you'd like to see my workflow, see my art, or leave me a spirited private message, i am <a href="https://twitter.com/rhysses?s=09">rhysses</a> on twitter. hello, hi.</p><p>sneaking in tiny world building inbetween kisses? kink.</p><p>anyways, thanks, love you bye--<br/>xoxo</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. cherries</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>the derry fair is here and a few things come to a head.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>big content warning:<br/>homophobic slurs, implied then said blatantly<br/>public humiliation<br/>choking<br/>allusions to homophobic violence/hate-crimes<br/>allusions to subspace</p><p>thank ye</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Hamlet</span>
  </em>
  <span> was a success. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie didn’t get to bow with the other stagehands after the performance because he was still under that demerit clause, and also in the band pit. But he did take pictures with the group and even got to keep a few personal reels. He was excited to develop them. Then, there were band pictures. Those were uncomfortable, now that Ashley told him he saw Maggie and Stan doing the sort of tonguing that wasn’t reserved for flutes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Walking with Maggie over to his friends was incredibly tense because she wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>their</span>
  </em>
  <span> friend. She was Stan’s spitbuddy. Seeing the bashful expression morph Stan’s face…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He probably made everyone uncomfortable with the erratics that night. But he </span>
  <em>
    <span>felt</span>
  </em>
  <span> uncomfortable, </span>
  <em>
    <span>felt</span>
  </em>
  <span> erratic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Climbing into his Mom’s station wagon was honestly a relief. </span>
</p><p><span>It’d been a few weeks since</span> <span>the performance, almost three months since its creation. Eddie saw one of the parents at the video store making copies of the performance when he was heading for the photo studio. A part of him wanted the permanence of that tape, a physical memory. But burns from hot glue guns would have to suffice. Besides, other things were on his brain. Like the Derry Fair. </span></p><p>
  <span>There was going to be a small recreation of a few selected scenes from the play since the junior high was also doing a mini showcase. Eddie passed on the sign-up sheet, but felt dour that he wouldn’t be occupied now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bill and Mike were coupled up. There was no doubt they’d wander away with one another. It was a preference of Eddie’s now that their honest love was so blatant, anyways. Like looking at the too-bright sun. His eyes throbbed faintly just thinking about it. And then Stan, well, there was no doubt he’d bring Maggie. It wasn’t like they were a publicised item but everyone who knew they hung out together </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> to tell him. Looking at the sweet smile of his friend over the lunch table only felt like he was rubbing himself with a cheese grater. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then there was Richie. But he didn't want to think about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey.” Eddie looked up from his homework as Mike jogged up to Bill’s porch. His trousers were rolled up at the ankle and he was wearing Bill’s frog socks. Those were recognisable from a mile away. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Already sharing clothes</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Eddie didn’t have anything nice to say for a few seconds and gave a delayed, “Oh, dude, hi!” as Stan and Bill greeted Mike. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry I’m late, I had to change out of my work stuff from helping set up at the fair. It’s looking really good y’all,” Mike was saying as they began to gather up. Eddie shoved his work into his satchel and carefully got up with his skates. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan held his hand immediately as they started going downhill, still chatting. Eddie glided alongside him trying not to combust. “Didja see the stage stuff for the kids?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Haha, yeah, I think they’re doing </span>
  <em>
    <span>Princess and the Pea</span>
  </em>
  <span> or something. Definitely a girl in a very pink and poofy dress,” Mike replied and Stan snickered with him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“T-Th-Think it’s guh--onna rain, tonight?” They all looked up at the sky. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mike shook his head. “Shouldn’t. But if it does, my jacket’s big enough for two.” His genuine charm was almost usurped by the fact that he was, also, sexy-- in a way Eddie had to look away from. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re fucking walking like slowasses let’s just get a move on!” It was too much too fast. Already. But he was too much, beginning to feel too much, holding it all in. Stan seemed a little put off at the way he snatched his hand out of the others grip and Eddie stumbled then used his momentum as a jump-off. Had to correct and make it look like it wasn’t Stan’s fault, anyone’s fault, just a wild whim. Just a chaotic impulse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Skating uptown was an endurance journey. Eddie knew the best thing would have been if he were in a car because then-- then it’d be like a five minute drive. With music and some heating. A particular car comes to mind. But he doesn’t want to go there, not today. Staves off the pain by taking the park shortcut he always used to slingshot through their street. He could hear Silver dashing along the cement and gravel which spurred him into continuing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was being an asshole. He was being difficult. Dramatic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It couldn’t be helped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie practised this trip dozens of times. Remembered how he could get to the theatre and hang out with Richie with 10 minutes of their designated meetup sometimes. That was the rush and exhilaration of youth. But the roads were destroyed on that front and paved over either way. A new building here and there, a longer stoplight or faster traffic. His skates would never be a car but their ability to help him burn off energy was a god-send.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They caught up to him at the elementary school’s stoplight. Bill was panting when he managed to keep himself upright and Mike leaned on his handlebars with a quirk in his grin. “Jesus alive, Eddie, you’re like a bat out of hell on that thing. Did you </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> us to eat your dirt?” He wiped his forehead and Stan nodded in agreement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, I warned you guys that you’re letting the junior junkies take over. Eat more vegetables” He grunted as he stretched his leg back, trying to barely touch the traffic post and somehow balance. There were a few close cases but Eddie held his own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Y-Yo-You’re goi-ng to be a t-t-twenty-some senior, shut up,” Bill laughed and Eddie shot him a red-faced glare.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck you! It’s not my fault the school system,” he pushed off as the cars slowed to a stop near them, “is fucking horseshit and has stupid age restrictions! Excuse me for being </span>
  <em>
    <span>born</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” The continued to laugh but followed suit, riding down the side street and booking it for the city center. Distantly, through the greying clouds, the darkening sky provided a cool setting for the fairlights. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He loosened the strings on his skates and when they got in, immediately went to lean against the bike racks and switch shoes. The grass was wet which had him half sitting on the </span>
  <em>
    <span>also</span>
  </em>
  <span> damp iron. Relentless teasing could be stomached but squishy cotton? God, he'd rather pull all his teeth out and replace them with nails than suffer that. As he worked, Mike and the others were discussing the plan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once disinterested and cruel youths, now everyone seemed to have their own friend group. “I t--th-think Barb should b-buh-bu-e, with the others by th-the cup ride. W-Wanna go there?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think that sounds good! Stan, you wanna-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh no,” he waved his hands and laughed, blushing again. “I have someplace else. But you guys-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Suh-someplace else? S-suuurre it’s n-not some”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nope, definitely someplace. Maybe a place where I’ll finally be respected and loved.” The others were laughing and Stan stood straight faced but with that smile in his eyes, blushing, Eddie staring from his perch and trying not to yell. He tied his skates around the same bar Silver was secured to and kept sitting there. Waiting for acknowledgement that didn’t seem to come as the verbal volley between friends continued. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was bullshit. “This is bullshit,” Eddie said hotly, approaching the trio. “We said we’d tackle the contest line first. Everyone’s going to get the good prizes!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bill attempted to mollify him. “Th-Those things are r-ri-ri-ri. Thosethings’re r-ri-rigged, Eddie, no one’s go-going to run off with the l-loto-lottery.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> that, and even then, I don’t want this shitty air to soak into anything!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can always washed stuffed animals,” Stan said, trying to mask the laughter in his voice, and Eddie felt the petulance turning into something else fast. He wanted to stomp his foot and claw his scalp off. “We can go try the water gu-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, forget it, it’s fine.” Eddie adjusted the neck of his sweater and Stan sighed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“C’mon, we can! We can split off with Bill and Mike at the cups then keep on to the contests.” Stan approaches him and Eddie stares off to the side with no response to the arm that wraps around him. “We’ll walk with you guys.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They walk together. While Mike and Bill are talking about attractions and the petting zoo’s construction, Eddie’s companion drops his voice to address him. “Hey. Are we alright?” His question is honest and fair. They have been weird.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, we would be weird if you were basically looking at me like I was everything and now everyone is telling me Maggie wants to lose it to you.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Actually, we’re not really ‘alright’ because we were great, literally amazing, and then you had to ruin everything because you’re a fucking bitch.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to say, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I really wanted to kiss you, I really wanted to touch you, but you’re cozied up with some fucking cunt</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean, yeah. Why wouldn’t we be?” He looks up at the other after a second of picking his nails disinteredly. Stan gives him a curious face but then just gently presses Eddie to him, says a mild, ‘alright’ and they’re done. Bill and Mike join the cup line and as they walk away from the two, Eddie sees them link pinkies. Blood boils in his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Autumn doesn’t suit him well even though people seem to think he looks more mature in the colder months. His aunt says it’s because he’s made for the season. As it gets closer to his birthday, he’ll look more and more within his element. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is a nice excuse to dress warm. To be warm. Eddie looks at Stan and the pink raised in patterns across his cheeks. His body twitches but he masks it as adjusting his posture, twitching. “Cold?” Stan smiles but Eddie shakes his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine, just felt my foot going numb.” Looking ahead, the two are allowed to step up into the fluorescents and yellows of the aquatic booth. The teen there looks disinterested. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gives the selection a cursory scan and then snorts. “Think you can win the purple bear?” It’s a higher tier item and honestly looks massive. Stan flips his hair and rolls his eyes at him, as if to say ‘that’s it?,’ so Eddie leans back to watch the shit show. At first the gun jams and then Stan sprays whilst moving the aim. It’s a hilarious display that baffles Eddie into a fit of laughter. Stan looks serious despite his grin and nudges the guffawing teen with his foot, telling him to shut up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They get a small baggie of bird-themed bouncing balls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey. Hey, Stan, think your forehead will make a good baseboard for these balls? They’re tiny enough. Hey. Haha, Stan, wanna play tennis with these things? They’d go fucking flying!” Stan thumps him and he giggles more. The flimsy mesh bag was easy to rip open and the winnings are split. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t say I never do anything for you,” Stan waves his two balls before pocketing them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie snorts and keeps squeezing his, rolling it around like marbles in his hand. “Dude, this is one of your payments for your 94 on the Bio exam,” and Stan shoves him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You said I got that fair and square!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, because I’m your employed tutor, so it’s not illegal how much you relied on me!” They’re snorting and horsing around. Stan gets him in a headlock and Eddie squeals as the sky flips to ground. He bucks and slaps his arm as he’s frog-walked away from the stands. It’s a warm moment that has him looking up at the other with a hazy smile. The way Stan looks back has him feeling even better. Like there’s a sliver of hope after all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s quieter as they continue walking. A pair in the bustle of a fast-filling fair. “Okay, but seriously. Thank you,” Eddie finally says and relishes the gentle comb of Stan’s hands through hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No problem. It was fun.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was. Especially when you almost slipped on your puddle.” His sly grin turns into another burst of chortles as they land on one of the benches near the fringe of the contest line. The bright, whirling lights has Eddie watching the colours paint the inky wash of Stan’s hair. It always darkens in the Fall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hand is pulled across the bench and Stan plays with his fingers. “So what did you want to do tonight?" His question doesn't feel fair for many reasons. Eddie wants to crawl across and kiss him, stares for a long time before he quickly diverts his attention.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Uh. Probably more games, get candy apples or the smoothie creams. What- were your plans?" He feels brave in broaching the subject. "You said you had someplace to be?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan bobs his head. "I agreed to help with some of the setup for the play in a little." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie feels… confused. "The play?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yesh. Hamlet? Did you forget that fast?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No! No, I just didn't realise you’d be setting up- I would have helped out if you, y’know" the teen huffs, “told me you’d be there.” Tries not to smile back at the laugh seen so clearly playing out silently across his friend's features. He's just holding his hand now and they're on the same bench, Eddie feeling his blush beginning to build like a rash at his neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan doesn't look too bothered. Serene as he watches Eddie, who comes closer to fix his tousled hair. "Well, you still can. We can head over there soon."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He responds with a nod and they don't speak after that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's dangerous in a town like theirs. More than just shame, violence is the second assailant. The more obvious one. Yet here they are. It's small, the kiss on his cheek, brushing the corner where his lips are. Eddie fees another cool-hot rush down his shoulders. Over his chest. He exhales and lets himself follow the other's lead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan is blushing, too. Eddie wants more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They're walking when he asks, "Are you and Maggie steadies?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't know </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span> he says it! He doesn't know maybe it's an awful need to ruin happiness, to remind everyone that they are wronging him, have wronged him. The needling tics of his mom crawling through his throat and out of his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan doesn't look that perturbed, again, but doesn't look at Eddie. "We're hanging out and stuff, but there's no… big thing about it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie raises his eyebrows then nods. Continues. "So you two have discussed that?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sure, yeah. But what does this…" he kind of laughs, flustered. "What's that have to do with Adam?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A lot?” It feels stupid. Maybe he's being dramatic. Difficult. But it feels stupid-- they’re beating around. Stan’s still holding his hand but limply. He looks up at him. “Maggie just seems gung-ho about you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think she’s really cool. And pretty funny.” Eddie didn’t ask that. “I just don’t know if there’s really a name for it yet, or anything like… I don’t know, for what we’re doing,” Stan answers wistfully. He seems to smile at nothing again and Eddie wants to ask who’s the ‘we’. Is it him or Maggie? He doesn’t want to ask it actually but scream it. Yank Stan’s hair and demand it. Too limp, so chaste. Is he not enough to be pursued? To have Stan’s tongue in his mouth- Stan’s hands on his waist? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He almost stares in disbelief. But there’s something crossing their path hot and he stops as one of Richie’s dogs pulls himself up with a nasty scowl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aren’t you two just fucking romantic,” he drawls. He’s got bad acne scars with an active cystic patch that looks like it was crocheted into his chin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie is bored of him immediately. Stan says ‘jeez, c’mon’ in a low voice and they circle around to give him a wide breadth. The guy looks like he follows for an instant but then stops short. He says something that is fittingly disgusting. He can see on Stan’s cheeks how the slur is setting into his bones, making his hand leaden as it drops from Eddie’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey.” He speaks up once they’re some way’s from the spot and tugs on Stan’s jacket sleeve for the other to stop. Arms wrapped around himself, Eddie nods to one of the tents. “I’m going to get myself something to drink then meet up with you later.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is worse than the pain of a blunt fist. A slammed head. He endures Stan's shifty gaze and smiles with red lips laced with his fake strength, his lies. "Seriously, I'll catch up with you. Get a move on, slacker." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie leaves before Stan can reply. There’s no hand in his to yank him back and cotton candy swirl shakes await him. He needs something to occupy him from a throbbing pain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing is like the painful rush of fake cherry crystals. The crunched ice and flavoring isn't as warm as Stan, but at least his mouth is occupied with something. At least there’s something. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s waiting for his candy apple, replaying the word ‘faggot’ like a magc stone in his head, scanning its curves and bezel edges. When the woman working the counter waves him over and sprinkles candy dust over the warm melting top, Eddie thinks about sprinkles, fairies, magic. “Thank you, ma’am,” he grins and leaves back into the hypernoise of the large fair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s bigger alone. He wishes he stuck with Mike or Bill, hadn’t said what he said, but it seemed like every loser had a disengagement pattern. He chose to just walk instead with full hands. Icy-hot. Grown men don’t walk around by themselves. They’re perverts and creeps. Leering, rancid no-go troublemakers. Dangerous. Eddie doesn’t want to grow into one of them but he feels close. His teeth are screaming from the hot bite of apple followed by the greedy suck of a slurpee. But he’s got to build his own sugar rush, fend for himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan probably gave him the run around because he’s not really into him. Not like how he is with Maggie. Maggie’s feminine and Eddie has a dick between his legs. It would be weird to deal with. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan probably doesn’t like him the say way. Doesn’t want to kiss him the same way. When boys kiss girls, it’s loaded with intent. Boys and girls get married. Two boys- two men- they don’t do that. It wasn’t a reality. Stan didn’t want the alternatives with Eddie. Maybe seeing Mike and Bill all lovey-dovery scared him from that. Eddie huffed at the thought. That’d be stupid. Who would be scared of that? Eddie just felt jealous. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In moments of loneliness, he remembers how powerful it felt to fall and pull himself back up with six people by his side. To shine and be witnessed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caught vacant-eyed, the young man quickly smiles with all his teeth then purses his lips and hastens away. The red and caramel-coated lumps he called teeth probably weren’t an inviting sight. He decides that he should sulk, actively. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he’s on a pink and brown broad mount, brooding. Its mane is frozen in action, a stallion with a strong whiny and a birthmark on its cheek. People are getting filed on and he’s still got a grip on his food, stubbornly. The loud horse might have been his comeuppance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The music starts and the world slowly begins to rotate. Many people have had their germs and grease all over these things, no one sanitizes inbetween rides, but Eddie wraps his arm around the pole jutting from his horse’s neck and hopes he is the picture of ennui. Bobbing up and down along behind children and their parents, flat-faced and drinking from a massive cup without a sparkle of enjoyment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Autumn muses his hair up. For a moment, he lets his eyes close and enjoys the up-down and pitchy organ. Eddie doesn’t want to go home but he does want to let his body go limp and pitch off the side of the horse, fall flat on his face. He wanted to reach into the sky and have another planet’s gravity pull him away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the third revolution, there was a familiar face leaned against the guard rails. Seeing him didn’t make Eddie seethe now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He just wished they fought less. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cheek leaned against the metal pole, the ride slowed five minutes later. Eddie could be less careful now that he’d basically demolished his slushie. He hopped down and rattled his teeth but walked off the sting. Dumped his trash in the attraction’s near-overflowing bin and walked with hands in his pockets towards Richie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They hadn’t spoken in two weeks. It was a pretty nasty argument. All Eddie had asked was why he was crying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not starting, Richie, so Eddie breaks first. “What’s up with you?” He snaps into the apple. “You look like Ichabod mid-war flashback,” he speaks through a mouthful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rich snorts. “Just watching you ride an ugly ass steed had me stunned to my core.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Carrie is a very sweet horse and I’ll be sure to make you apologise when he’s done entertaining others.” They’re just standing there by the gates and Eddie doesn’t need more weird tension but he has it with literally everyone. “Come the fuck on. We look like weirdos.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t need to worry about breaking his silence and saying something stupid, because Richie’s already running off. “I heard Mick called you and the Bitch faggots,” he says abruptly, plainly. The word doesn’t make Eddie jump as hard as it would have. He just rolls his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I was wondering if you sent your yapping dogs on us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie grimaced and shook his head, almost cutting Eddie off as he replied, “Nah, nono, I wouldn’t do some shit like that.” Eddie’s look must have been too suspicious. “Listen, Eds, if you’re going to be fucking faggy, then I’d let it be, but it’s not something I’d be all, ‘hey, Mick, go run your sawtooth-ass mouth after those particular pair of limp-wrists’ like, you really think I’d do that?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice is edging in that dangerous direction of so hurt he’s about to punch something. With a grunt, the shorter of the two holds up his candy apple and Richie snatches it. Bites and then groans. “This isn’t even fucking warm anymore, Eds, are you trying to make me shatter my teeth on this glass glob?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be a baby about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Takes one, don’t it?” Richie holds it for him without taking another bite. They fall into a familiar step, with Richie’s slouched back, hand in his pocket, and Eddie’s fast walk making up for the difference in stride.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The argument is still lingering in the air. Richie had made a habit of pulling up at the end of the street. He’d flash his lights and Eddie would take some homework with him, a change of clothes, and a fanny pack before shimmying out of his window. Sliding down the roof and landing with that jarr to jog off to meet him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a lot of kissing in empty parking lots or side streets. He relished in the way Richie’s finger dug into his ass, grinding against him as some synthy number played-- or a bass guitar. Richie would taunt him about it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re such a slut for me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he’d mumble in his ear. This deep voice that had his brain melting down through his ears. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Such a whore for my cock. You want me to fuck you so bad, little 18 year old virg, huh?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It never went beyond heavy petting and dark promises. It was too much, a threat Eddie knew he wouldn’t contain if it got any larger. Secrets like that got too big. He’d pant, detangling from Richie as his hand broke past underwear, a finger pressing between his crack. The sudden pullback would be granted with a lopsided red-lipped smile and he’d whisper, ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>night richie</span>
  </em>
  <span>.’ No matter the kisses that would pull him back in or the frustrated, dangerous growl. He would leave. That night, the argument was bad. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bad</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it was just because Richie was teary-eyed when he was leaving. Maybe his tone had been too surprised, too saccharine, he didn’t know </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span> had Rich combust but it was enough that Eddie slammed his textbook into the emergency break and ran away hearing cursing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t voice his concerns. “I want another drink,” he declared. Richie eyed him and shrugged, pivoting with Ed for the slushie stand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the counter, Richie slid easily in front of him. “Hey, evening, lemme get your uh, strawberry and cherry fusion? Yeah, I’ll have the medium for that, no prob. Nah, that’ll be it, thanks man.” His cash isn’t in a rubber band but a few singles he passes over. Eddie eyes the bulge of what must be his wallet in the back pocket as he hangs back. Richie walks over to him and shakes the sugar-slush. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” he mumbles and holds the straw to drink. Feels himself getting pink because Richie’s looking at him in his dark-eyed way, where it’s like anything he does is-- well. Is everything to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bill and Mike are dating.” He looks up at Richie to gauge his reaction but the other just whistles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Finally. Thought they’d need to mount each other mid-lunch the way they’re so goddamn obvious. Hey, think they call themselves a swirl-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nope, let’s not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Chocolate and vanilla swirl-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s what Bill’s asshole probably-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“OH!” Eddie shouts. “My </span>
  <em>
    <span>God</span>
  </em>
  <span>! Richie, beep beep, </span>
  <em>
    <span>goddamn</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” He rolls his eyes and Richie snickers as he follows after him, obedient for two minutes before he’s speaking up again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So… You and Stan are, what? Being gay together?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie shakes his head. “He has a girlfriend. Well,” he sees Richie’s face fall blank. “Not a girlfriend but they’re like, dating or… Something, I guess, I don’t really know. Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you got called fags, just--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you not? With that word? Like, all the time? It’s really annoying.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“... Okay,” Richie says slowly. Pauses and then continues. “So you got called queers-” His head snaps back and there’s a visible tense twitch, Eddie shouldn’t push but his exasperated sigh was loud, probably purposefully “oh my god, what the fuck do you want me to say? ‘Little gay bitches’? Jesus.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You just don’t have to be such a dick about it!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, how precious, what should I say? Want me to say it all lofty, “<em>men whom enjoy the company of their ilk”</em> or some shit?” It’s horrible how good he is at that voice. How hot it sounds to Eddie and makes him <em>want</em> to laugh. Richie’s got him by the restrooms and crowds him. “What, you don’t like hearing that you’re a fag, Eds?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not supposed to feel like this. Pavlovian response flashes hot in his head and Eddie glares up at the sick smile, then rudely pushes the soda up to Richie’s lips. Watches him take it and then turns to budge out of the sudden bubble. “Don’t be a bitch about it. You’re no better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m no better?” Richie glowers as he follows. “I get my shit wet one way or another and obviously Stan’s telling the whole world he’s not some fucking fairy. I’m not </span>
  <em>
    <span>dating</span>
  </em>
  <span> a dude-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s right, you aren’t, so we don’t need to continue the conversation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus, what pissed you off now? Are you mad that Bill didn’t invite you in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my god, fuck you, Rchie.” His arm is grabbed and Richie’s holding him from taking another step on the slippery gravel. He’s got his teeth nearly bared looking at the man and Rich takes a long drink, cocking his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t make a scene, sweetheart, you’ll make the kiddies cry.” He walks forward until Eddie has no option but to walk with him or be visibly dragged. “Why are you so sensitive? It’s just a word.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie sneers. “It’s not just a ‘word’ it’s a mean word. And I think you’re a hypocrite for using it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How am I a hypocrite?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The look he gives him is withering but Richie just tsks. Lets him go and Eddie walks ahead, trying to control it, the pulse of heat and ice with the slushie mixing into something cacophonous that wants to rush up his throat. “Eddie, sweetheart, being a fag is like, choosing to be super fucking out about it, you know? I have bitches on the side but they don't mean shit to me, and at the end of the day, maybe like Stan, I'm just a simple man with a simple outlook, not a f-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He relishes in how the other man almost drops the slushie with how fast and hard he rounds and hits him with the full force of his swinging arm. Eddie can see Richie’s confused shock, free hand at his chest and Eddie’s arm hurts from how the buttons of the denim jacket slammed into his skin. But his fist connecting at least gave him the dopamine he’d been craving. The exultant energy of relief. Of exertion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The way Richie looked at him now didn’t have the wolfish smile from that day at school. As Eddie was carted away by his friends, a writhing and howling mess.</span>
</p><p>A long fuse. </p><p>
  <span>Eddie felt himself grabbed under his neck and then the rough prod of the soda’s straw. An apology was suffocated as he swallowed the rush of sugar that Richie squeezed into his mouth, sucking and choking. Richie looked blown out. Too still and too rigid as he watched Eddie struggle to swallow past his firm hand. Quietly, he enunciated. “Do not ever think you can fucking hit me like that again, do you understand me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He just nodded and gasped, doubling over as soda went through his nose, leaked out his mouth and he coughed. Groaned at the stinging and dizziness. Richie stood by and Eddie looked up, eyes red with tears and struggle, and spoke through his rasp. “Okay. I’m sorry, Richie.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He accepted the wordlessly offered napkin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>More time has to pass before Richie says, breezy, “Who the fuck taught you to hit like that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Secret.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He can’t go up to the others with Rich on his heels but does say he’s going to head home early. Lies about caring for curfews, complains about how the fair makes him uneasy all the time. Mike and Bill hug him goodbye. Stan’s in the stacks with the others from school. Eddie spots the tell-tale hairclips of Maggie next to him and gets his rollerskates from the bike rack to head for Richie’s truck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the interlude, he sees two stuffed teddy bears have taken their place in the front seat and Richie’s got a stupid beaver hat on. Eddie leans up to tap on the window and rests his arms once it’s been wound down enough. “You don’t have to drive me all the way. I can walk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll drive you all the way. Let’s get some actual food first, though, my mouth feels like shit. I don’t know how you drink all that sugar.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dangers are present to be considered. It’s a risk, dark-eyed Richie in that stupid hat, the empty back seat and his Mother at home who would probably fall asleep in her chair. But he licks his lips and climbs in anyways. His sweater rides up as his legs kick. Rich doesn’t help him get through the opening but he doesn’t need it, swinging awkwardly until he’s sitting sideways and squishing the stuffed bears. “Sorry,” he apologies to them, and adjusts until they’re balanced in the stupidly-short front seat. Has them on his lap, pulls the seat belt around all three of their bodies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s staring ahead before looking at Richie’s smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Eddie motions agitatedly. “Hello, let’s go. Drive-thrus close soon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your carriage, princess.” Richie gets the engine going and they pull off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They make it through the drive-thru but nothing gets eaten. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie’s got his fingers in his mouth and Eddie sucks obediently, nothing but mewls and moans under the insistent buck of the other’s hips. His dick is hard in his jeans to the point of pain. Richie’s voice is hot; the windows steam. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Suck them like they’re my cock, baby, yeah like that,” he bites his lip as Eddie bobs his head awkwardly, pushing deeper with closed eyes, “just like that, pretty thing. Look how you’re slobbering all over me. You want to do that to my dick, right sweetheart?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Can’t think to say anything. Knows he shouldn’t have done this. God knows what Richie touched at the carnival but he’s moaning wantonly around the digits that pump in and out past his lips. When Richie pulls them away, there’s a lewd popping noise. The disappointed whine is swallowed as Richie licks into his mouth and there tongues tangle, the other breathing hard above him as Eddie tangles his fingers into his hair. Bucks to rub against him more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stan doesn’t do this to you, does he?” Richie’s voice is a never-ending chasm. Eddie closes his eyes at the sensory pain that almost pulses in his vision. Turns his head away with the shame. “He doesn’t touch you like this, kiss you like this, does he?” His hand cups Eddie’s cheeks and turns his head hard. He has to stare up at the intensity that emphasises the sharpness of the taller teen’s jaw. “Answer me.” He rubs hard again and moves the other hand down, squeezing and pressing at Ed’s ass. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pitifully, Eddie grunts, “No, Richie.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t think so,” the other responds, breathless. “But that’s his loss, isn’t it? Because look at you- so beautiful, so needy.” Eddie has to close his eyes and Richie licks a long stripe up his neck. “He wouldn’t know how to handle it,” he’s speaking next to his ear. Every word is a stab, is a comfort. “Wouldn’t know what to do. You’re so pinky and whiny and precious, with your cock so hard and your ass just begging for a fucking, what would he do with that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Richie, please, please-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But it doesn’t matter because he doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve to </span>
  <em>
    <span>claim</span>
  </em>
  <span> you.” The hand at his cheeks moves around his throat and the pressure feels like it did at the park, because he feels himself floating. Feels himself wanting to cry. “You’re so sweet and so sexy, little fucking tart. Doesn’t deserve it. Does he, baby? Say he doesn’t deserve you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I can’t, Richiejust-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Say he doesn’t deserve you.” The pressure increases, a rough grind, he’s panting and his head is dizzy. “Fucking say it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“GGhnn, Rich, please. Please, I-I don’t wanna-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fucking say it</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Do it </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He doesn’t deserve you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gasps past the hand and the haze. “He doesn’t deserve me!” It feels like so much. “He doesn’t deserve me.” But it’s exertion. There’s something about it, that he relishes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He keens loudly and misses the heat of Richie’s breath by his ear, on his neck. Has a hand drag from his throat and down his heaving chest hard over his nipples. He’s probably staining his jeans. Richie fixes their positions until he’s pulled into his lap. Their faces are close and Richie brushes their noses together. “No, he doesn’t deserve you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie’s fingers go back to the tangle of Richie’s sweaty hair. They’re staring and panting. Richie’s lip curls back like an animal’s. Quietly, he speaks into Eddie’s neck. “I would claim you.” Eddie’s squeezed closer. “I’d claim you. I’d break anyone’s neck who looked at us wrong. I wouldn’t be scared again. I won’t be scared.” He’s sinking into emotions like last time; it’s almost a repeat, that things get so hot that whatever has happened to Richie comes to the surface. Bleeds out of a stone face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay to be scared,” Eddie shudders out.His brain struggles to keep up with the different tone. Especially as they grind slow. He can feel Richie’s dick bumping against his ass in intervals, their bodies moving to rub similar bulges together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s conditional.” Pulling back, Richie watches Eddie struggle not to close his eyes, struggle to quiet the squeaks and sighs that creep past swollen lips. Eddie watches him watch him. “I really want to murder him, for making you feel like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ed gasps, scandalized. “Richie, he has every right to his feelings--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you were mine, i’d let everyone know. I would never be ashamed.” Richie nuzzles into his neck and holds Eddie’s hips, thrusting like they’re not clothed. Like it’s-- it’s almost too real. “I’d never have some stupid bitch on the side to save face. I would never want you to be my secret.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s dangerous-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s love, baby.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s out before either of them can avoid it. And maybe that’s why it’d been so long since the argument. Because now they’re both flushed and staring at each other, big eyed and still. Eddie doesn’t know what to say. Feels the sea in his ears. Feels like he’s lost. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie’s sweaty and drawn so tight it looks like he can break himself. Eddie doesn’t move, neither does he. But the trashmouth wins out, mouth opening to release a frenzied chatter, “There’s been a thousand fucking chances at this, literally hundreds of thousands, and it’s so much to know, that I can’t, be with you in the way I want and that you won’t fucking let me because you never do.” He’s gasping it out, grip too hard now. It’s painful. Eddie squirms but doesn’t try to move because Richie’s been feeling too much, holding in too much. He’s popped his final fuse. He’s going nuclear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you’re mine, in every way, I always fucking- wanted you, wanted to carve myself into you, always had a place for you in me, and it’s frustrating because everyone’s a shit talking snob now, Stan’s a backstabbing viperous cunt and you didn’t want, to be around me so what was left for me to fucking do? Because I can’t be the way, and I can’t- because if you leave, I know what’ll happen and I can’t fucking stop it, because I don’t want you to leave me.” It’s all so fast and frenzied he struggles to keep up. Has to stop it by kissing him again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re both crying, he thinks. He doesn’t know what immeasurable heartache has overswept him but he needs to drown in Richie for it to be suppressed. Needs the weight of his hands, the pressure on his neck, the fingers twisting his nipples, the teeth at his throat. Needs to drown in it because it’s too much. He needs to exert, trembling like a flower. Feels like he’ll explode. Both of them sweat-slick and teary-eyed as they mouth at each other and go meteor hot until the pain is fizzled out. Until they can bury what feels like a thousand hopeful tries and hopeless results. He's clawing at Richie's shirt, muffled by the weight of the body above him bearing down. Telling him to cum, calling him precious, perfect, his. His. Breaks a part as the warmth fills his pants, leaks clear through it, open mouth and glass eyes as a hand around his throat holds him steady while Richie mouths at the cumstained denim.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could die over and over again if it meant feeling Richie against him, hearing Richie say his name. Floating above and beyond, seeing space, and then being anchored in strong arms. He would do anything to see the hot wonder of those eyes on his body. He’d do anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d do anything. He'd die a thousand times if it meant this. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hi babes, that was fun. for me? for me.<br/>I had fun. did you? I hope you did.</p><p>my confession: never been to a fair. well, maybe once- but I was five. Can't remember it. Did I get fairs right? lemme know.</p><p>kudos and comments are always amazing to me and appreciated.<br/>hmu for updates, questions, or chitchats, I'm <a href="https://twitter.com/rhysses?s=09">rhysses</a> on twitter :-) you can also send me long berating letters.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. dreaming awake</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>just a relationship snapshot. it's nice and comfortable to have a not-not-boyfriend.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this chapter and its sister one, which will be up sometime this week, goes out to all of the people who commented and cheered on this fic. BadBoyDeanAsf, jesusisbread and potatoblanket are really out here being super supportive so special shoutout to them. of course shoutout to others who have been reading my other reddie fic, leaving lovely comments, just- generally . thanks guys. </p><p>you guys slap.</p><p>hopefully this chapter slaps in return for you. k-thx. </p><p>cw: <br/>spit<br/>slight infidelity</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They don’t talk in front of the Losers at first. Eddie establishes that ground rule: school is only meant for looking. But they can hang out afterward. They can do what they want afterward. And it’s a perfect plan for autumn’s quick descent into winter. They get a cold snap at the end of September that has the entire town reeling from enjoying the 60s of just three days prior. It’s a nuisance for Eddie who played double duty as fragile son and man of the house. The workout of maintaining a clear and snow-free driveway became wretched exhaustion when his Mother, sure as day, hounded him about the dangers snow presented to his health. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has someone to keep his bed warm on certain nights. And even if the truck was a junker, its heating worked like a charm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A lot of time was spent in the back of that truck. It managed to resist snow days as Richie meticulously tightened new wheels on, which meant there were less excuses to spend hours of the day in the thing. Practically a second home with how often Eddie found himself falling asleep in the back seat or writhing, like the torn seating were pillows at home, and humping the air as his imagination gave way to the reality of Richie’s mouth at his neck, his nails in his hip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mag sat at their table a lot more. Stan and she never sat next to another but right across, which left Eddie stuck with the other’s hand gripping his thigh whenever he laughed at whatever Maggie said that passed for a joke. Bill and Mike were cordial enough; lucky for her, he’d think bitterly, that they were reduced to the more genial of the group. He would spend lunch idly imagining Bev making snide remarks about how shitty her perm looked or how dumb her joke was. They’d probably walk off together hand-in-hand to get away from the farce. Go cuddle up somewhere else in the airway or nuzzle in the cafeteria to fight the cold and giggle amongst themselves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Drag Ben along. Ben would talk to him about their homework and sit and smile just to watch Bev and Eddie go on their own personal tear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He really missed them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he missed Richie, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Would watch him as he sulked to his group of friends or laughed, raucous, from a table a few spots away. Sometimes it was the other way around and he could feel the other’s eyes on him as their table laughed particularly loud. Took in Stan’s arm around his shoulders or Bill holding his hand from across the table, Mike shoving him gleefully, sharing food, kissing without the actual act of it all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At school, he was only bold enough to sometimes look back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But outside of it had become so different. Eddie reveled in the look on Richie’s face as he kneaded the flesh of his side with cold hands, the heater working double to warm the truck’s interior. Loved the grunts and quiet moans that gave way to louder sighs as his body twitched and bucked under his hands. It felt powerful to look at Rich and know what he did- what he was doing. How a thick sweater that showed off just enough of his pale throat could put the taller teen into a frenzied state. How whispering his name could have him going soldier-straight. The look on his face was always priceless, like he would explode at any minute. Mount Eddie in the school’s parking lot and fuck between his thighs for everyone to see if only it was allowed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie learned a lot about himself that winter. About himself, of course, but also about the others. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie had nightmares. Really bad ones. Richie didn’t like spaces that were too dark and without saying the words, feared whatever lurked in those dark shadows. He slept in class because the lights were bright and seemed at his most rested, in his deepest slumber, with his head in Eddie’s lap as they crouched in some secret sunny corner at the park packed with as much snow as possible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Snow blindness is real.” Eddie had been toying with Richie’s hair when the other spoke. Lidded eyes looked up at him, one larger than the other from the skew of Richie’s horrible glasses. “The gleam of the snow is so bright, and when the sun hits it, it’s like walking in a bright bright light.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why wouldn’t you just close your eyes and wait until the sun goes down, then?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie’s question was met with a brief snort. Not condescension but something self-deprecating. “I wish it could be as simple as just closing your eyes, Eds.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a medical encyclopedia at the library which explained that Richie could either have a severe personality disorder, psychopathy, schizophrenia, or ADHD. Or a combination of all of those. On paper it was a lot to look at and Eddie knew - </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span>- that putting the weight of truth into a stock of aged text wasn’t right or good. But at least it started him somewhere. He wanted to be in a position to help his… His- whatever Rich was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because now that he was allowed a closer proximity, it was like spiraling into a different dimension- floating, transfixed, caught in the eye of a massive beast. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was hard to balance the two worlds. Richie and his depths, the Losers and their paths. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A week before Thanksgiving, he’d decided to hunker down with Stan to make some progress on their individual projects. Stan had an enormous amount of books with stickynotes and colour tabs painting their dull sides in a lively pattern. He’d been there to witness the production of his backpack and locker steadily accumulating different volumes Bill and Mike curated for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had the other’s sweater pulled over his polo and let his legs stretch out on the bed as he annotated a book. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t understand how to make a clear timeline from the Hellenic period to the goddamn Cuban Missile Crisis,” Stan groaned from the floor and scrubbed his hand across his face. “This is insane. Why’d I do this again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“An unrelenting need to prove yourself to every teacher that ever existed, probably.” Eddie peeked over his book belatedly but managed to catch Stan’s glare. “I mean you did turn in that outline as if you knew what you were going to do, dude.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t think she’d actually believe me, Christ.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He flipped to another page in the book and switched to a yellow highlighter. This was Richie’s stolen class copy of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jane Eyre</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He looked at the swooping letters and craggly, faded sentences- marveled at the others ability to write in such tiny margins. His pen stood out far bolder. When he was alone with the book for the first time, he’d leaned down mid paragraph and inhaled. Bill always creamed himself over an old book smell-- warm, faded, rich, autumn leaves and coffee, an imprinted memory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The book smelled like tar and shoe polish. Virginia Slims and something else. The Evergreen car charm with dirt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie came with his nose buried in the book alone in his room a few nights ago. Imagining Richie’s concentration and calloused hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s still vaguely arousing, probably not a great idea to read in public- certainly not in his friend’s bed. Weight shifts his collection of tools and Stan picks up his other markers where he settles near him. “Still enjoying that?” He keeps a respectful distance from Eddie but is angled toward him. Eyes shifted away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie acts like this sometimes. Relaxed and casual, like they’re just good friends. Edges himself with the whole play of it, blushing without blushing, coy in his want. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They don’t spend a lot of time alone anymore, he and Stan. The teen is preoccupied with many other things. Other plans that make him blush. At first Eddie thought Stan was avoiding him on purpose- then, he berated himself. Selfish and stupid to think that, right? But now he knew Stan was avoiding him. Knew it when his parents gushed upon seeing him, knew it when he had spent a week barely sparring the other a glance, kept his distance during lunch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knew it when Stan </span>
  <em>
    <span>noticed</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he noticed the noticing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s why he was here right now, wasn’t it? Stan’s shy attempt to make-up for what had been his own fault. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s pretty good. I think Rochester is a giant idiot. But he’s less of an idiot than the Irish asshole.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All the men in these books are giant idiots any way you cut it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but Irish Asshole is probably the biggest of all the deli meats. A real prime slice of stupid juice.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t smile when Stan laughs but taps the other's leg. “Hn?” Good amusement is still in Stan’s eyes which quickly widen to shock Eddie ignores as he makes the teen’s lap a good pillow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Continuing, languidly, he reads over the next paragraph then speaks. "What are you guys doing for the spring show?" Eddie licks a finger before flipping. He reads the spirited annotations and stupid comments, hears them in Richie's voice. A smile comes unbidden. A natural result of being reminded of the book's owner. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan isn't answering so he lowers the book, holding his friend's vacant gaze. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wonders if Stan's getting hard thinking about the warmth next to his cock. He wonders if Maggie's touched him yet, if he's ever felt the heat and soft that is 'inside.' Thinks about how a month ago he would have gladly had Stan's cock in his mouth, sucking him sweetly, tentatively, as they quote-on-quote studied.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wonders if Stan knows what he's thinking. If he's aware what exactly Eddie could do for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>To him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fingers up, Eddie snaps and drawls sardonically, "Calling all space cadets back to homebase. We kinda need a fucking answer."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That gets him. Stan's blushing but doesn't look away from him. Just clears his throat and answers like a minute hasn't passed in silence. "They want to do an adaptation of </span>
  <em>
    <span>One Flew.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Either that or Hello, Dolly."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie snorts. "I'd love to see the shit show that's Hello, Dolly."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It'll probably win out. Since most of the female roles for cuckoo's are pretty derogatory."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sexist."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Inappropriate."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They nod together and Eddie smiles at him fondly. "Well, just know I'm going to hate every second of Dolly's stupid musical numbers." Even thinking about it he rolls his eyes and lets the book fall over his face dramatically. "My lips are going to be sore as shit."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can feel the air shifting around his friend. Makes him think about his lips. Remember Maggie's own, sore after runs and scales. He's seen how they kiss- accidental glances to be sure. Incidentally turning a corner on his way out of band.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reddened. Plump. Bet she shied away from it, the pain, but he liked it when Rich would bite his already smarting mouth. Watched himself in the mirror of the other's room as he sucked the hooked fingers. An obscene pop. The tender feeling of overabuse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe Stan really did like Second-Chair Maggie. Or maybe that was his different world, too. A way to turn away and hide.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie and he weren't so different. Already being so close, of course, playing off of each other so expertly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other's hand fell to his stomach and tickled up his sweaters lightly. It had Eddie cringing and giggling, pushing the book off his face to push at Stan. "Don't start," he warned even as Stan was pushing to tickle him again. "Don't!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He made a clamor trying to scuttle away and his laugh was muffled when he fell face first into the mattress.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Richie made dirty money. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Said he didn't care much for the politics of fairness and tested every product himself. Unless he knew it was too fucked up. But people had personal tastes beside his own.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He was a great mathematician. Good at chemistry from all his notes. And Eddie had taught him a few nifty tricks to support a burgeoning green thumb. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>They went to this guy Chris's apartment in the boonies. Richie teased him for his light blue jeans and fuzzy sweater, knit hat, but it was too late to change. He fit Richie's oversized jacket over him and tucked it into his belt where it buttoned. It made him look like a balloon.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Richie bought him Valium and Quaaludes. Lit up with the other people in the cramped apartment- "trial run" he'd breathed- then guided him to the master bathroom.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The regular fluorescents were replaced with a band of green and pink lights. Greenery sprouted from the tub and little plastic tins held massive amounts of condensation. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"I rent this for a pretty penny and turn three times the fucking profit. You take the amount of concentration it takes to grow this shit alone, it's fair." Richie shows him how to pull the mushrooms out. Take them by the bottom and gently, firmly, twist. Brush off some dirt and place on the platters. "But maximizing output with this set up? Super unfair. Practically parasitic. People will pay so much for shit that's so easy to do yourself."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Eddie had been cranky that day. Annoyed and flighty from all the drugs and debauchery. Now, especially, that he played accomplice. "What are you even saving up for, anyways? You could buy two better goddamn cars if you actually have such cash." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Oh, don't start with that now." Richie grinned at him, all sleaze and promise. "If you wanted to balance my books like a good secretary, I'd be filling your gut with cum babe-- but! Yer not. So mind your business so you don't gotta </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>get</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span> the business."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"It was a simple questi-"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Don't."</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kissing Stan was different than he expected. More firm, the hand that cradled his cheek, the insistent pressure of his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mid-laugh, breath already caught and smiling wide. That is when he kissed him. Maybe it was something about Eddie's overwhelming giggle fit that had compelled his friend. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now he wasn't stopping. Their teeth clashed often, Stan's nails raking up his sides before he smoothed the skin apologetically. Eddie gets an arm inbetween them and pushes the hard-to-budge body until they are barely hovering from one another.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sorry," Stan breathes immediately.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie shakes his head at him. "You have a girlfriend."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"She's technically not--"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"She's your girlfriend." He shoves him with more force than friends should use, and sits up. Sees the yearning in the way Stan has to clench his fist at his sides and holds himself still as Eddie doesn't immediately adjust the layers that have been pushed up past his hard nipples. Doesn't fix his hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A coward</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Richie called Stan that. Whispered how Stan was nothing but a spineless coward. An abandoner. A lucky fuck. A weak link. Never gave evidence to back it up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"God, Eddie, seriously. I didn't-- I really didn't mean to-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He flowers, snatching his pens and markers up. "Kisses aren’t accidental,” he snapped, eyes narrowing. “They're compulsions. Compulsive." He shoves him again, for extra measure, just to be mean. "Do it again and I'm leaving."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Embarrassment is sexy on his friend. It compliments his cheekbones and the increasing dark of his hair. Tension, desire. Hating himself for wanting. Eager to listen. Obey. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Understandable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stay in those roles; Eddie rules over him like a pouty young lord and Stan is a lady-in-waiting, a doted upon servant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He even looks cutely abashed over a small meal prepared by his parents, hesitant to answer questions his Father directs to he and Eddie both.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan's antics and little hiding ways fit him. If it's not meant to be known, Eddie could pretend for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie's rule is that he gets to flex outside of school. Any property is his property. Which is why he kisses Stan's cheek at the front door as snow flurries into the house, quickly jogging out with his noisy bookbag toward the awaiting truck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He crawls in and doesn't care if Stan tells. Hopes he does, knows he won't, doesn't care as Richie greets him with a rough kiss. "Hi, baby," he hums along with the engine. The truck is already warm. Siouxsie is playing. Eddie smiles at him and nuzzles close before climbing into the backseat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re supposed to have dinner at his place tonight because Maggie’s cooking a special stew. She likes having Eddie over- and he obviously missed her- barring Richie’s awkwardness. He obviously adores his parents but has a disconnection that is palpable a lot of the time. Struggles to maintain a conversation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He says he sleeps better when Eddie’s over. Falls out next to him on the couch and doesn’t budge until a few minutes after he’s moved. But otherwise, he prefers using his bedroom for studying and jacking off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’d studying go?” Eddie sees him glance in the rearview and smiles at the question. It’s so… This thing they do makes him think about how nice it would be to do in the future. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Getting comfortable, he leans his cheek against the cold window. “Alright. Read past the quota today. What about you, what’d you get up to?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie hums. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sold some bud, mostly just waiting around.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Waiting around?” he giggles, teasing, but touched because it feels so very nice to be someone’s day. To be someone’s night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie doesn’t reply because they’re pulling up to his house. The lights are on and the front yard’s been shoveled. It’s much more welcoming than Eddie’s, especially since his Mom was out for bingo. She was probably planning to have some sort of accident to guilt-trip him. But as he entered the Tozier’s warm home, he found himself in a similar mood of simply not caring.</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maggie was slapping the back of her hand down into her palm, voice raised as the Tozier men hung their heads. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Exactly</span>
  </em>
  <span> what I said Eddie!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Who doesn't wash their vegetables after they buy them? That's insane!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span>!'</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were two hours into Monopoly and the game had been abandoned for mostly gossip. Went was a horrible banker and Richie had basically rigged the game through grants and big buys to steal everyone's money. House rules mandated that revenge be doled as so: him sitting through long rants centered around whatever annoying shit he does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie enjoyed the time at the dinner table. Richie played footsie with him from time to time and he got to watch the Tozier Team matchup that was Maggie and Went. They were pretty docile for being so ruthless in-game. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The house was very cozy. His Mom called four times. He could see his house lights, bare glimmers, through the frosted window. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Went sighed with obvious relief as Maggie started to stand and collect their cups. "Well, riveting game, folks! I reckon we can cool down from that. Let's try it again next year? Yeah? Yeah?" He looked around the table with thumbs up before padding into the kitchen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clean up was tasked to them, obviously. Eddie started collecting all their pieces and glowered at Richie. "I'm never playing a board game with you ever again," he grunted. "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Or</span>
  </em>
  <span> having you do groceries!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't wanna do your damn groceries anyways. Papa's bringing in the dough, you can do the cleaning." Richie actually giggled at avoiding a sharp elbow to his stomach, hand snapping out to grab at the other. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were caught in that force play that the house had been so empty of for these past years. Roughhousing and Eddie's indignant snarling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maggie's voice from the kitchen, "Boy's! Oi, no fighting by the table! C'mon you two!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie snatches the hastily tidied Monopoly board and books it upstairs with a shrill squeak, Richie stumbling after him with crooked glasses. "That was a cheating ass move you shit! Hey! C'mere!" He bangs on his bedroom door, Eddie laughing behind it, and stops once his mother says things in a language only he seems to understand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The exhilaration has Eddie buzzing and in hyperactive stitches. Once Richie pads away, he stays close to the door, trying to stifle his panting and laughs. There's a short ruckus then the door being unlocked from outside- which has him bolting to the bed as Richie opens it, standing there with a blank expression. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's a heavy movement in anticipation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neither party disappoints in this game, Eddie scrambling to cower once Richie closes the door, said man pouncing like a cat with a favourite chewtoy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His flailing and squeals are abated by the heavy body that presses into him, hands flying flimsy pinned. Richie bears down on him and their close proximity has his glasses fogging up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't wanna be too loud and rile up the parents, sugarstack." Richie's hands are cold as they shove up his shirt, make Eddie squirm and cringe. He's flushed. Feels vaguely - horny? Maybe? Excited, trying not to smile at this false anger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's obvious; Richie knows him better now and reads the fire that's underlining his eyes, how he bucks and wriggles under his body. He knows what he wants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie gets it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They don't do much more than usual. He whimpers into the pillow, cock leaking into his mostly pulled down briefs. His trousers are wiggled down, Richie sliding his dick along the crack of his ass, yanking on his hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We have to get you loosened up." The hand yanks his hair again and Eddie bubbles a moan a</span>
  <span>s Richie grabs his bottom roughly. Pulls a cheek hard to one side. "You're too tense for my cock, right, baby? Such a tightass."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shot of spit lands sloppy, mostly catching cheek with some slashing across the peek of Eddie's puckered asshole. He moans below and answers at a signaling tug, "Y-Yes, yes Richie. I'm too-" Chokes muffling himself into the pillow as a thumb presses more spit against his hole. "I'm too tight," he shudders. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It still feels really weird and kind of hurts when Richie does this. Hooks his thumb in and prods, slowly and circling the drilling digit. He does it until Eddie is cringing in pain and then some- pushes his boundaries and luck until Eddie is bucking, wincing, whispering through tight teeth "richie that fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurts.</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Recently they've been pushing it a lot. They have to scramble to talk conversationally so Went and Maggie don't get any suspicions, Richie grinding against his neglected cock as he forces Eddie to talk Calculus work. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dressing is rushed and if Eddie looks messy when the door opens, the parents blame it on their roughhousing. His mother blames it on the environment. His awful associations. Et cetera. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then there's the leaving. Leaving is hard. Richie presses kisses to his neck, his ear, the back of his head and of course his lips, but never gives him the chance to properly say goodbye. Instead he watches from the doorway for however long as Eddie walks away and home. It’s different, when he says, “miss you” and then shoves the shorter away. Still leans against the doorframe with a reserved smugness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s battering around in Eddie’s mind even as his Mother tells him he’ll be the reason she suffers cardiac arrest and dies. It follows him into the shower and sweetly tucks him into bed, Richie’s warm breath quickly, “miss you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not ‘I’ll miss you.’ ‘Already missing you.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wonders what Richie does these nights now. Most likely getting ready to pack up and head into his car for long drives until five in the morn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What does he dream of? Sometime Stan looks similarly haunted, but it’s lessened ever since Maggie came around. (Then again, he’s lessened since Maggie came around. Packaged himself and Eddie turned away.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he’s in the grip of a nightmare, Richie goes slack and mumbles incoherently. Seems fine really until the tears are coming down. That’s how it starts most of the time. Why Eddie thought Richie just exhausted himself until he blacked out into bliss. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he was always in the grip of a nightmare. What horrors did he see, that made him so cagey, protective? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t quantify their affections but it was the one and only time in the truck Richie ever dropped the ‘L’ word. Eddie thinks about being missed by someone so close but so far away. Like looking at the ocean and yearning for that infinite something when even an inkling manifests in front of you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mind drifting from speculation to speculation, he sinks into sleep like he’s going underwater. Feels the bubbles of air leaving his body as he slumps without another sound.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>tried to make this one a lil longer. tried to make it thoughtful n sweet. </p><p>again, thank you guys for being patient. i am a simple ghoul student and i've taken on more hours at work because i don't want to be evicted. ;^)</p><p>hmu <a href="https://twitter.com/rhysses?s=09">rhysses</a>, tell  me you hate me</p><p>comments and kudos always blow me away, much appreciated. thanks love you --</p><p>xoxo</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. waking reality</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>alt title: "wake up, eds"</p><p>-</p><p>breakups and broken glasses, the cycle of abuse and fear has lasting effects.</p><p>MAJOR CW warning for:<br/><b>allusions to disordered eating<br/>drug abuse<br/>allusions to character death<br/>brief descriptions of body horror + gore</b><br/>infidelity<br/>violence<br/>uneaten food<br/>a shrewd criticism of the turtle</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> Oh</em>, Eddie thinks, mind sluggish and dim. <em> So that’s what he dreams about</em>.</p><p>He thinks his head’s split open on the concrete of the asphalt and it doesn’t feel like his strength as he pushes himself up. There’s yelling in the background but it flies above him like the sound of the rare airplane soaring above town. Droning high up into the clouds until they disappear amongst condensation and gravity. Eddie wishes he could fly but finds himself sinking again. </p><p>The last time he saw Richie, he looked like he was seizing. And Stan, well. </p><p>Poor Stan…</p><p>Well, it wasn’t all like that immediately. If he could track the spiral, he would have, mind careening around the corners of his memory to somehow make sense of the tragedy.</p><hr/><p> </p><p>Eddie had taken to journaling. He writes down in a burst his most sacred thoughts. How many times Richie’s made him cum, how many times he's thought about saying the 'l' word, how many times he and Stan have seemingly kissed, how often he sees Bill sporting new bruises, how good he’s getting at different scales. He tracks his weight and measurements; hypothesises on specific desires then spirals into too-vivid detail until he’s shaking while scribbling. </p><p>Then he holds the papers above the burner of their stove and lets the flames eat them up. Collects the soot in chipped teacups his Mother had made to throw away but never got around to, because she was a hoarder who only liked to toss things that would hurt Eddie. Never herself. </p><p>He burned that revelation, too. </p><p>Journaling really helps sort his feelings more. Lessens his general animosity towards the Jewish kid he’s taken to kissing when they both go to the bathroom at the same time. Meanly rubbing at his crotch until Stan’s keening quietly into his mouth before pulling away with lidded eyes and a bored expression. They take a leak but Stan always comes back two minutes or more after Eddie’s arrival. </p><p>It’s also helped him keep a momentary ledger. </p><p>Throughout one week, Eddie has secured information through careful shorthand from last week’s results that his pill popping habit is increasing. Jumped up 1.7 percent actually. This wasn’t too bad compared to the sparse seasons where he was too scared to take anything Richie gave him. </p><p>Maybe that also added to his good mood and lessened pacing. He did get really horrible jitters though. And, actually, still felt the chaotic rush of swiveling emotions- the effects were just more grating, like he had access to every emotion and every reason each of his feelings “felt” the way they did. </p><p>He could put down things on his agenda, journal at the same time, keep one, toss the other. Managing his life became as simple as destruction and preservation.</p><p>He wonders how he’s been able to do it so easily. Begin to manage gains and losses as something in him crouches, curls. Some part of him that relishes doubly in the feeling of burning paper and laps up the fear that overtakes him momentarily when his shirt sleeve catches or when the fire singes the tips of his nails. </p><p>Pyro tendencies aside, November’s cold air made warmth more understandable. It made Eddie more stubborn and resolute, sticking to bold decisions that might not be the best- but felt good, felt heated, in the moment. Sometimes Eddie let the Losers see him talking to Richie before class or standing outside in the snow as families carpooled. He’d be sitting on one of the short brick walls and idly toying with a backpack keychain as Richie loomed over him with crossed arms, flexing his fingers when former friends came within view so that the leather of his jacket ever so faintly squeaked. </p><p>Different from when he was holding himself back from pouncing on Eddie as the younger man chewed on his smarting, flute-fresh lips. </p><p>Thoughtful restraint that promised action later did not compare to the tension that he could barely conceal when hearing Stan’s laugh.</p><p>Of course it didn’t take long to come up as the Losers warmed to the reality. But it was not in the way he’d hoped.</p><p>They were crouched in the clubhouse pasting torn and spread garbage bags to the ceiling. The slap and slide of shoes was the first indication and they quickly hastened to secure Mike’s arrival in the downpour. Multiple sandcastle buckets and pails were scattered around in deathtrap fashion. Ben would have known how to secure the perimeter but, alas.</p><p>Eddie was more than happy to spend the miserable day in a chamber full of memories. The dirt and chill of the clubhouse was cold for outside’s colder and he’d dragged sweaters, blankets and a thermos with him when Bill had biked to his house to convince him to come. It was time to Wallow.</p><p>Richie and he were off again. The guy wasn’t answering his calls and hadn’t appeared at school for three days, which was so fucking irritating because last they spoke it was an argument about the fact the girl’s in band were saying Richie and Jessica had been hanging out a ton after school (which had been interesting because the afterschool rides and talks had come to a slow halt a <em> week </em> prior, so what the fuck was the truth?) It had been spiteful and definitely tearful on Eddie's part. Fighting off Richie's embrace and comforting, suffocating kisses to further accuse him when all he wanted was-- well, he didn't know what he wanted. Maybe to prove everyone wrong by giving the male a hard hug in front of the entire school. But he couldn't do that. Maybe that's where they'd left off; the fact there were a lot of wants and nothing to do about them in Eddie's mind. Whereas Richie, well.</p><p>He thought the opposite.</p><p>Teenage angst led him to embrace the glum and sour day as he curled up in his obscenely fluffy blankets, shoes kicked off so he wouldn’t track dirt in. </p><p>“What took you so long?” Bill greeted, opening an arm to slug around Mike’s soaked shoulder. He offered a dirty towel which the other accepted with a laugh. He was still panting. Eddie glared where his head was visible under the blanket mountain. They were so positive and in love. Fucking assholes.</p><p>“Maaaan, I was fucking gunning here.” Letting the raggedy thing soak up dripping water from his hair, Mike settled on one shitty beanbag by Bill’s outpost. Stan tossed him one of Ben’s giant shirts to replace his soaked through button-down. It shouldn’t come as a surprise but Eddie hadn’t realised how tight Mike’s stomach had gotten.</p><p>“I don’t call mud-cleaning duties!”  he spoke up from the hammock. “It’s already too damn cold to be down here.”</p><p>“You should clean it then and have that activity build up some heat.” Stan dodges the haircap Eddie slingshots his way.</p><p>Mike huffs once he finally guzzles down tea from his thermos and smacks his lips. “Well, you guys won’t believe the shit I heard.” He doesn’t sound as enthused or theatrical like usual when spilling town tea.</p><p>“Uh-oh. Old Florida gossip is back again. What’s the shit?” Eddie adjusts the pillow under his back, smiling encouragingly despite his poor mood.</p><p>Mike doesn’t want to look at him. This is bad because he likes Eddie’s reactions, seeing his eyes blow huge or his mouth motoroff. Instead he glances at Bill who already <em> seems </em>to know. Their faces are mirrors of quiet.</p><p>From the tire swing, Stan looks at Eddie confused then back at Mike. “... Well?”</p><p>Another lip smack and then Mike rubbing his chin. “I heard there was a blowup at the housing complex back by Bev’s. Those apartments.”</p><p>“The dumpy ones, yeah,” Stan encourages.</p><p>“There was a big drug bust last week and then I guess a gang-fight.”</p><p>Eddie’s stomach feels leaden. He sounds too loud to himself as he says “<em> Well </em>?”</p><p>“Well,” Mike scratches his chin again then shrugs. “I heard from his kid who used to go to my church that a tall white kid got caught in the middle- and there aren’t a lot of those over there.”</p><p>Stan makes a noise but Eddie just stares blankly. Richie’s radio-silence and missing truck. The nights he saw Maggie on the porch in the snow, staring lost. </p><p>“So rumor’s that Richie was at the bust. I don’t know all there is about the truth there, but the kid told me that his cousin described him to a tee, asked him if he was that big-glasses kid I knew.”</p><p>Lost in his own head, Eddie belatedly realises the others are looking at him. He hasn’t spoken to give them a reason to look his way- or maybe its the silence that has them staring. Any barbs or sharp remarks have been stowed away for a silence he cannot break. Bill is quiet when he speaks. “I know you two have been… getting close again. I-- I-I heard about it, like a day ago s-s-so I … I wanted you to be w-with friends when you. Y’know. Eventually… heard.”</p><p>He doesn’t have the capacity to be proud of Bill’s strides toward stutter-free sentences. At least he still has the small percentage to backwardly acknowledge that he doesn’t have the ability to acknowledge it.</p><p>Eddie isn’t going to brave the storm outside but he also isn’t going to face his friends, opting instead to disappear into his blanket nest and try not to cry. His heart squeezes and aches. Stan gets up to comfort him but he's gone cold to the world.</p><hr/><p>Even when Richie’s back, they don’t speak. He’ll own up for the parts of the problem that are on him. </p><p>He’s having weird dreams. Water and light and the voices of his friends more and more. At first he’s scared they’re bladder-related and tries to pee right before bed but quickly realises these are manifestations on their own. Continuations of fragment feelings he can barely remember from other nights where the same floating and sinking sensation occurred. </p><p>He’s also feeling a little guilty because he definitely had a hand down Stan’s pants over the weekend. Stroking him through his boxers as the other bucked and whimpered behind one hand. The other was holding onto Eddie’s own dick, as they sat against the wall on Stan’s bed. The entire affair could be disregarded as an exploration of sexuality between two friends if the kissing didn’t happen. </p><p>Bad habit that got worse. But it fed him, in this dark way. The spiral out of his hands somehow felt- right. Orchestrated by himself and solely himself. </p><p>Eddie would blank out and speak to himself in his head. A voice tickling his ear snidely. <em> Awe, only going to let Richie touch you to pass Math, huh? Too stupid to do that on your own, arentcha Eddie-boy? </em></p><p>
  <em> Are you more angry that Bill and Mike are more in love than you’ll ever be, or that they’ll leave you when they get <strong>murdered</strong> on the street? Would you cry over their bodies, huh, Eddie? Be sad that your two best friends died side-by-side and left you with your <strong>nothing</strong> boyfriend and your little <span class="u">secrets</span>? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Wouldn’t it be just a shame if Richie knew what you were up to? Wouldn’t he be broken, hurt? Especially after all he does for you?  </em>
</p><p><em> I bet Richie’s just using you. You’re <strong>nothing</strong> for him; you can barely cook, you’re obsessive. Why, you’re as fat as a pig! At least Benny was cute for a porker; you’re just the <strong>ugliest</strong> red dot on Earth </em>.</p><p>He’d hear it when he expelled his lunch into a stall after they’d been dismissed from the cafeteria. Engaged with it idly while zoning out in English class, head on his desk until his teacher cleared her throat. He made stupid mistakes during practise but reading notes and focusing on rhythm was a little more helpful is stopping the smirking whisper.</p><p>Days passed by where he took his route home, avoiding Richie by leaving through the carpark and hopping the gate midway down the road to continue per normal. Tagged along with Stan to ride with his parents until they took enough pity to drop him close by then take a roundabout back their way. </p><p>His homework was getting done but messy, half-assed. He popped pills to quiet the whispers and it helped some, but the after-effects were hell if he overcorrected. When he was expected to engage with his Mother who accused him of smoking pot over dinner every other night if he didn't reply to questions fast enough-- those were bad days. His window frosted over easy but when it stayed clear, Eddie would watch the Tozier house. Or at least the one angle he could get of it, all the way down the way. Imagined Maggie’s hot cocoa and how happy she must be to have her jaded little boy back. The arguments that must have ensued. The stew being cooked. The lights on, candles popping, smells of comfort and love through tension. </p><p>Somewhere in his mind, he relishes in knowing Richie’s doing the same thing. That’s when he lets his curtain fall from where he peeled it back to peek and clambers back into bed.</p><p>Richie didn’t do avoidance good. Eddie knew it wouldn’t be too long before the other was heading his way, and it came near the end of term. He knew that for certain when the rumble of the other’s truck was right outside the pharmacy as he went to pick up refills for his inhaler. He didn’t turn, kept his head ducked and browsed up and down the shop, weathering the greedy stare of the pharmacist, until the noise was far enough down the road for him to escape. </p><p>Now...</p><p>Richie was circling. His gaze was focused, laser sharp, and Eddie felt his insides give an uncomfortable twist at how well he knew the battle-pattern of the other. Christmas was around the corner; if they could survive Christmas-- if things could cool off-</p><p>All day he circled. Eddie saw him in glimpses; the after-image of his broadening body walking away, his silhouette down the hall when he glanced up on his way to the bathroom in 2nd period; the snatch of his voice rumbling a floor above him; his eyes- unrelenting- feet away as bodies blurred past him. He felt haunted by the other in every way. He struggled during his Calculus exams between arousal, fear, and pride as Richie’s voice curled in his ear, a guide between the variety of problems. </p><p>He was mentally exhausted by the end of school, emotionally resplendent to embrace his friends on their last day of the year. </p><p>They went to the diner together, a feat in the snow. Eddie had to basically ride like a ship masts’s spread lady on Silver and fell face first when Bill attempted a stylish parking job. In comparison to dirty slush of Maine’s roads, the new powder beginning to come down in the day’s second wind was the backdrop to the Losers’ annual ‘last meal.’</p><p>Eddie tried to limit his visits to Derry’s Dine-In. Ever since that encounter however back, he could bridle and blush within a moment too long in the memory. </p><p>A waitress came back for Mike’s order while giving the others their drinks. Bill plucked the cherries out of his milkshake for Eddie and the male snicked the middle through with his fingernail, popping one as the table hummed with chatter and laughter. </p><p>“Gonna get anything for Mags, Stan? Maybe a cute little dreidel ornament so she remembers her favourite man’s religion?” Mike bounced his eyebrows then curled his legs up as Stan aimed a kick under the table.</p><p>“She already got me one of those,” he confesses lamely and the table ‘ooooooo’s with delight at the other’s reddening face. Eddie looks at him from the side and grins wide with a ‘oh wooooow.’ He doesn’t put much effort into leaning away as Stan shoves him.</p><p>The world is too sharp today. He puts his head down at the table and his friends understand, because either he’s bouncing off the walls or he’s too weak to deal with the angles of every item. He’s skinnier, two sweaters and drowning in fabric, noise of his friends a lulling wave. Like floating on water and sinking.</p><p>He either missed the opportunity or forwent it to say thanks when the waitress came and put their food down. Distantly, Eddie heard his friends talking about him, Bill’s voice quiet “is he asleep?” and Stan’s hand on his back, rubbing, with what felt like the vibrations of an affirmative nod. </p><p>He’s not dreaming, maybe. But he can’t open his eyes.</p><p>They already feel open. They feel open and everything is still dark, with the light at the edge that would be the window. There’s noise distant and thrumming and Richie except not. His jaw is too square. His glasses are different.</p><p><em> They’re cracked</em>, he observes. Better fitting. Must be irritating against the crooked nose and the stubbled chin.</p><p><em> This shouldn’t be happening </em> he hears, cries. <em> This shouldn’t have happened. It’s not supposed to be this way. I did <strong>everything</strong>-</em></p><p>The voices are trailing away. He can still hear Bill and Mike, even Bev and Richie, talking and sobbing. The slush and slap of water waves. He’s sinking, he thinks. He’s sinking and breathing shallowly. </p><p><em> I’m asleep</em>, Eddie says with no moving mouth. With wide eyes and a limp neck as the light gets further away. <em> I’m asleep. I have to wake up </em>. He can hear Richie sobbing with the ragged, shuddering breaths he takes when he wakes from his nightmares. It sounds snottier, deeper. </p><p>It’s coming out of him now. Awful, deep sobs as Richie floats. He floats without water- flies without wings. He’s slack. Like the chemical wash that had killed the river fish because of some stupid fuck’s science experiment gone wrong in junior high. Eddie’s screaming for him and watches with a crumpling chest as he’s folded in half. Sees Richie blank and glowing eyes bisect, flesh tear from his cheek and heels knock against the back of his head as puncture marks cave in his chest and back. He is a horrorshow; Eddie can’t see what’s doing it but he is hopelessly still and just screaming and crying. </p><p>He hears so many versions of himself. Sees so many versions of Richie, stretching, infinitely, and this hum like many cicadas vibrates him.</p><p>Lights are too bright. The angles hurt. His friends are shouting. </p><p>He raises his head with a grunt and can barely see Richie standing at the end of their table. Bill’s talking to him and Eddie would be proud that his stutter was so diminished, even if Bill had to have been nervous, but was too pained. </p><p>“-don’t know why you’re coming over here just to fight,” he was able to snatch before Richie raked clear through his sentence in return,</p><p>“I just want to talk to Eddie and you’re telling me he’s passed out so why can’t I ask a fucking question?”</p><p>“Well, it can probably <em> wait </em>, is what I’m saying-”</p><p>“Bill, can you stop being such a hen for a minute? Jesus Christ, I literally just came over here-”</p><p>They notice his dazed state and their faces both creases. Bill says, “Are you okay?” while Richie just breathes his name.</p><p>He looks between them in confusion. “What?” His voice sounds raw, even to him. The table seems to wince in unison. Mike hands him napkins for some reason until he can feel the itch himself and hurriedly pats at his face, starting to shake as the tears are sopped up. </p><p>Stan’s hand has snaked to his waist and as Richie edges closer he must see.</p><p>Strangely, the hand stays. Stan’s arm is a bar at his back as Eddie shakes his head with another sore-voiced “sorry, shit, weird dream.” He looks up at Richie but his attention is obviously elsewhere. He starts to sweat. “You wanted to talk?”</p><p>Cold eyes snap to his and he tries to suppress the shudder that wants to curl down his body. “Yeah. I wanted to talk.”</p><p>“We can talk.” Eddie looks at the table. The only one who doesn’t look concerned is Mike, but he’s still staring at Richie, looking-- lost. Stan’s arm has tightened but he aims a smile at him and wriggles a little. He hadn’t realised how much he’d begun to sweat until then; the cooling pitstain makes him want to grimace. Stan seems to get the clue and his arm slacks, falls, and he talks to Eddie but it’s aimed at the outcast: “Be back soon; your food’s already kinda cold.”</p><p>Thumb up, Ed brushes against Richie, who refused to move, and looks up. He hopes he looks reserved and thinks he does because the male simply nods to the door and starts walking.</p><p>He doesn’t <em> want </em> to talk outside. It’s <em> cold </em> outside and he remembers the cold of the dream, but backing down to Rich isn’t the best idea.</p><p>Outside, his leg bounces impatiently. And to build warmth. “So what’s up?”</p><p>Richie shrugs. “What’s up with you?” It has an edge, which Eddie latches onto, bristling.</p><p>“Well I was obviously hanging out with my friends, so I’d like to know what’s the big to-do.”</p><p>A humourless grin. “Yeah, hangin’ out, I saw you knocked out at the table. Like you can’t stand to be around them-”</p><p>“Wow, really far from the truth. I actually <em> enjoy </em> the company I keep, unlike you-”</p><p>“You don’t know how I am with the ‘company I keep,’ duchess-”</p><p>“Yeah I do ‘cause you complain about them to high noon!” Eddie’s already on edge from the dream, emotions confused regarding Rich, and he crosses his arms tight across his chest. “Off-topic. What did you want, Richie?”</p><p>The teen sighs and his fingers flex like he wants a cigarette. His nose is crooked now, healed from its swollen state, and he has a flash of the Richie in his dreams. The frantic eyes and cracked glass. How desperate he was. In the present, he watches it redden and flare as Richie runs a hand through snow-dusted hair. “I wanted to patch things up. I don’t know why we’re fighting, man.”</p><p>“Richie you literally disappeared, got into a gang fight, pop up again <em> demanding </em> my time like you didn’t just skip out on talking to me-”</p><p>“I survived a fucking gang fight, gimme a break-”</p><p>“<em>You have money. For a <strong>toll</strong> <strong>booth</strong>. </em>”</p><p>Before he could respond, Eddie continued, sharp and quiet. “I can’t fucking believe you want to be together forever and shit when you throw your life on the line like you could give less of a fuck, Rich. Let’s cut right to it. I can’t imagine you caring if-”</p><p>“Woaaaah, woahwoaholdon-”</p><p>“No, let me <em> finish </em>-”</p><p>“No, I’m going to have to stop you because you sound <em> stupid </em>-”</p><p>“Me questioning your stupid fucking actions isn’t stupid, Rich!” Eddie’s fuming and so is Richie, who is edging closer to loom like he does. Like he always does and the height of him makes Eddie want to buckle. The storm in his eyes and the tense jaw makes Eddie want to give in and cry. Because he’s mad that Richie would die on him and not <em> for </em> him. Because he’s happy that he’s alive and safe and his, even though it’s been nearly a month. How selfish is that? </p><p><em> It’s not supposed to be this way</em>.</p><p>Eddie was ready to defend himself; how many Jessicas and Chica’s did he have to weather before Richie finally ‘fessed up and just loved him outloud? How many people would they have to avoid-- how could they date normally when their emotions were bigger than the town but not bigger than their lives? He didn’t know if Richie would die for <em> him </em> sometimes. Richie seemed like he’d die for <em> anything</em>; drugs and guns, he was living on the edge and hoping- constantly, silently- that someone would finally call his bluff and put one solid lug through his thick skull. </p><p>He’s nauseous and the tears are right there but Eddie holds them back. “What’s the fucking matter with you, to do that?” He emphasizes it with the slap of his hands together. Rich’s nose is flaring again. </p><p>“I’m making this money for us-” He powers through Eddie’s scoff.  “Even if ‘us’ isn’t a possibility.”</p><p>“Of course it’s not a fucking possibility when you keep trying to die!”</p><p>“I’m not trying to fucking die-”</p><p>“Yes you ARE. You don’t CARE. I <em> know </em> you don’t, it’s in the way you talk you walk you fucking act like you’re straight up asking for a gunshot-”</p><p>“You sound so corny and out of your mind right now, Eds, literally ridiculous-”</p><p>“If anyone’s going to die it’d be fucking <em> me </em> I have no idea what your malfunction-”</p><p>His yowl is cut off short by how unexpected the intake of cold air is, a knife in his throat, as Rich grabs his arm painfully and wrenches him forward in what resembles an attempt to dislocate his entire fucking arm. He’s thunderous but scared looking. “Don’t fucking <b>say that</b><em>. </em> Don’t you <em> ever </em> in your life fucking say that, do you hear me? Do you hear me!?”</p><p>Eddie would cry if his vision wasn’t blurring and he can feel his head splitting in two ways. Richie must see it, too. There’s so many Richie’s. An infinite number of Richie’s.</p><p>All he can see is him dying. All he can feel is his cowardice. Whether he is 5’9’’ and strong or 5’10’’ and weak, married or engaged, meek or ravaged, Richie will always die. But it’s always his body that sinks while Richie’s floats. The light leaks from the setting sun burn his vision into scattered colours and the pain inserts dots that feel like bubbles. </p><p>The dreams where he floats then washes away. The feeling of water encapsulating him as the voices of his friends dim. </p><p>His nose is bleeding, he can taste the iron. He loves the taste of it. It isn’t him that does, but he loves it. Every destructive habit narrows down. There’s a roar in his ears, the cicadas and something alien. <em> Richie loves me. He would never want me to die. </em></p><p>
  <em> Richie loves ownership. I’m nothing to him. He wants a toy. I love him. I love him so much I’ll be it. I’m a toy. I’m his. </em>
</p><p>Blurts out, “Would you kill me if you knew I’d been sleeping with Stan?” because he doesn’t know why-- it isn’t his voice, it echoes with mania that isn’t <em> his </em>, it’s fake, it’s fake, his red lips and red tongue aren’t his. He wants to snatch it back but can’t. Richie’s face is still in shock. He doesn’t even seem angry. </p><p>They’re frozen in the cold. Statues being covered by snow. </p><p>He sees himself in Richie’s glasses. This pale but red-faced figure, red dripping down his lip, confessing adultery. Sodomy. He imagines himself looking at Richie with a ring on his finger and talking about his wife. Imagines himself within a woman and pumping mechanically, straining to pretend arousal. Sees himself as a coveted stranger and a current betrayer. </p><p>Richie’s voice is small. “What?” He’s so hurt that Eddie feels the tears finally break, and he hastens to speak. </p><p>“I’m sorry- I’m sorry, it was once, well technically-”</p><p>“You <em> slept </em> with him?” he reiterates and Eddie wonders if he should backpedal, because do handjobs <em> count </em> as sleeping with, but Richie is pressing forward. “Why the fuck would you do that? Are you insane?”</p><p>“Rich, I-- you know I really like-- I promise, it was a mistake-”</p><p>“How do you make a mistake like that, Eds?” his voice cast quiet, low, and Eddie closes his eyes against the hurt. <em> Why am I doing this </em> but there it is again, that dark urge. He suppresses it and just shakes his head with a quickening breath. </p><p>“We weren’t talking, Rich, and the last I heard-”</p><p>“The last you heard <em> shit </em> , you know I would never do that fucking shit to you! You fucking know I wouldn’t! What the hell has gotten into you?” He’s incredulous. “<em>Stan </em>? That asshole? That fucking eunuch-made two-timing whore?”</p><p>They must look insane, a couple arguing outside Derry’s Dine-In while it snows. </p><p>“It was a handie-”</p><p>“Oh, so Stan deserves that right? Deserves you <em> touching </em> him, sparing him a fucking glance when all you do is bitch about him and his stupid fucking bucktooth girlfriend-”</p><p>“Rich,” he’s pleading, tears in his eyes.</p><p>“But I have to chase after you like a dog, stack up cash for you, sacrifice for you to even get a glance, right? That’s <em> fucking hilarious </em> .” Richie’s baring his teeth but there’s no usual aggression. It’s wounded. “Ain’t he the same motherfucker who won’t even try and hold your hand in public cause it’s too gay? Huh, Eds, that tries to avoid the homo shit- went out of his way to stop rumours cause he didn’t <em> want </em> anyone to think <em> he </em> could like <em> you </em>. Isn’t that fucking right!? What the fuck did I tell you about how much of a slimy coward-ass-”</p><p>The door opens which is the worst thing because fuck, it’s his friends, who look <em> so </em> confused and concerned. Richie doesn’t look up until he sees Eddie’s panicked stare and straightens up over him. </p><p>They’re standing in the cold, all of them now. Bill’s face is resolute and grave and Mike’s cautious, frowning like Stan. Eddie didn’t realise how hard he was breathing and how much he was shaking until the quiet lull. </p><p>“Richie, man, let him go,” Mike starts and Richie actually does. Not immediately but he does. Eddie stays close because he doesn’t want Rich to spiral-- he can see him about to. Feeling caged, freaking out, especially after what he was just told. His attentions are spinning but he focuses on Stan. Exactly what Eddie didn’t want.</p><p>With a hand on the other’s arm, he squeezes. “Richie, I’m sorry-”</p><p>“Did you fucking plan this against me or some shit?” He’s staring at Stan. “You plan this shit?”</p><p>For his part, Stan looks <em> very </em> confused but his jaw is tensed. He’s never really been scared of Richie. Just nervous. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Richie, but you don’t have to stand outside yelling.”</p><p>“Hah.” Rich licks his teeth; Eddie is pretty sure the wide smile he gets splits his lip open. “Fucking nice. Real nice, what, you guys all-” he swirls a hand. “Enjoying the spectacle of making me go nuts? Not talking to me wasn’t the worst you could do right?” </p><p>Spiraling. He’s totally blackholing. Shit. “Rich, it’s not like that.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Bill pipes up. “W-W-We’re j-- j-just here fo-f-f-for o-ou-our fri-friend,” he’s stuttering because of the cold now, probably, but it doesn’t stop the way his voice slightly cracks near the end. </p><p>“Yeah, because I’m not that, right?”</p><p>“Richie--”</p><p>“Fuck you, don’t care. <em> You </em> ,” Rich sneers. “You, Stan, you’ve got some big fucking <em> balls</em>. I doubted how much of a fucking no-spine-bare-survival shitstain piece of garbage you could be,” he’s advancing, dragging Eddie pitifully behind in the snow. “But you’re constantly pushing the envelope! Wow! Round of a-goddamn-pplause.”</p><p>They’re not supposed to be like this. This shouldn’t be happening. </p><p>Behind him, Eddie’s yanking, desperate. “Rich, c’mon, please! The turtle wouldn’t want this for us!”</p><p>Everyone seems to stop. Rich stills from walking toward the group and Eddie pants, confused why he just said that, as giggles and snickers sound in his brain. He can feel lightly the twitches Richie begins to exhibit. Arms rigid then shaking, a knuckle cracking as he twitches again. </p><p>Eddie opens his mouth in the quiet of the scene then feels pain explode, bright hot, and goes reeling back. His friends shout but it’s dim and he’s walloped again but it’s way lighter- more like a shove with one’s knuckle. That’s fine honestly; the first punch did some serious damage. Richie hits the ground the same time he does and he sees the teen, neck arched and eyes wide, rolled back, spasming violently. Mike shouts and rushes down to help him, Stan as well, as Bill scrambles for Eddie.</p><p>He can see it perfectly now.</p><p>Stan is never in the dreams. Never his voice, the distant echo. <em> Coward </em>, Richie calls him-- he escaped didn’t he, but in the way people leave Derry. The permanent exit. He can see the pale body, older and softer. He can see the grey at Bill’s ears in his hair, Mike’s filled out jaw, and Richie slack-jawed with snot and tears running down his face. </p><p>Is that why Richie hates him so much? Feels abandoned by Stan the Man? Cheated</p><p>He imagines him in hundreds of ways. Eaten, crushed, stabbed, sliced. Mutilated and puppeted. A husk for some dark creature. A marionette like he told him he was scared of being. Controlled forever.</p><p> </p><p><em> Oh</em>, Eddie thinks, mind sluggish and dim. <em> So that’s what he dreams about </em></p><p>His fall took him to the edge of the street, head cracked on the corner asphalt with barely any snow but instead hardened ice that snaps under his weight. </p><p>Other people are running out. Eddie slumps back down even as he tries to futilely push past the din in his head. Richie’s jerking leg is huge. It takes two patrons plus Mike to border him, try and contain him. He thinks to himself, <em> Someone should turn him on his side </em>. Bill’s speaking to him but he isn’t paying attention. Remembering all the books he poured over that speculated a diagnosis for Richie, he wants to laugh at how obvious PTSD is. </p><p>How would you act if you had to watch someone die over and over again? </p><p>And it wasn’t just a nightmare was it, Eddie could see it in the gasps and breathless grunts, constricted airways, as Richie flailed dangerously. He knew it wasn’t- not from Richie’s lackadaisical ways, flippant about death. His tired expressions and the overabundance of love he saw when the male looked at his parents, before it quickly hid behind a bored smile.</p><p><em> They didn’t beat It. </em> A laughing clown, a crying one, his eyes wanting to close even as Bill told him the exact opposite. <em> It wasn’t supposed to be this way</em>.</p><p>The turtle shouldn’t have let this happen.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>ayup..<br/>well, folks. I'd be lying if I said I didn't have fun. </p><p>this chapter came out late because my internet was ASS till about 12 am today so weehoo. nice.</p><p>this fic was just a trap to explore my own personal au. I'd love to hear your thoughts about the shitshow I created.<br/>crested 100 pages on the google doc for this bad boy in total. what a moment. </p><p>thanks to everyone for your support. kudos and comments stun me and are appreciated like always, follow me @<a href="https://twitter.com/rhysses?s=09">rhysses</a> on twit if you'd like to send me a personal letter about how much you hated this if the comments aren't for you. or, we can just talk on there, I like chatting :-&gt;</p><p>thanks, love you, bye--<br/>xoxo</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. christmas</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Eddie realises his losses can be gains, if he tries hard enough. He schedules an appointment for amends.<br/>Also, dreams.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>lemme exchplain in the author notes below  [spoilers for i guess this au but you're not reading this as a novel for your literature course so sparknotes away] but shoutout to everyone who has been so supportive and honest with me, you guys are mad cool. also,  i promise the drama club element comes back next chapter for important reasons. </p><p>i don't deserve your kindness, but i'm trying to practise the principle to my readers. you guys deserve the break. so here is something nicer.</p><p>to clarify the last chapter: richie punched eddie. eddie fell and hit his head super hard, concussion. richie starts having a seizure and eddie passes out.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mike and Bill’s ‘get well!’ balloons are still floating by the window. Beverly’s flowers are on the window sill. It takes a while for him to make it out, propped up on several pillows and staring at the darkened corner until things begin to slowly materialise and make sense.</p><p>He felt like a mummy- looked like one, too. Tender to the touch, he’s got layers of gauze and bandages laying across his cheeks, nose, and chest. His head was wrapped but now it’s bandage free. When he looks down at himself, his stare is overlong as feelings bunch in his throat. Skin clear, room clean: evidence of care. Being cared for so tenderly… </p><p>Playing feeble wasn’t on the agenda right now. There wasn’t much of an agenda to begin with as Eddie carefully hung his legs off the side of his bed and smoothed his feet over the cool grain of wood. He waited before standing with a small hiss but nothing hurt too much. His muscles were surprised to be put back into use but not terribly unsteady. Eddie wraps a blanket from the bed around him and carefully begins a slow slide out of his room.</p><p>His mother always hated bad posture. No slouchers, no sliders; she would have gotten out her shrill screech if she saw how he moved now. Barely lifting a foot as he navigated the long hallway.</p><p>Richie’s room was down the hall but maybe he’d gone the wrong direction. The house didn’t smell like Lemonfresh; there were no tiled hallways. </p><p>Eddie Kaspbrak stared at the figure framed against the giant floor-to-ceiling window. Morning was unkind to him in this moment as strong, broad shoulders and a long mop of hair were left in shadow. Undetailed but Eddie could fill in all the blanks. He wanted to speak up-- no, he wanted to stay quiet, not break the careful peace. That wasn’t it either, though.</p><p>He wanted to watch. To be and feel so very far away and take in the essence that was the man he loved doing something so simple as standing. Voyeuristic though it may be, it felt like a lovable torture. Unable to act, compelled to move. But there were so few moments where he got to sit and bask. Richie was always looking at him. He could always feel his stare. Since they were about 12, he’d learned to slowly hone-in on the particular tingles Richie’s gaze provoked. Not even in a romantic sense. Maybe the magnification of his eyes from those awful glasses made the damn things into lasers. Point being:</p><p>Eddie wanted to enjoy simply looking. Had been, was, until Richie seemed to perk and wave at the window with a laugh.</p><p>“Hey there, Nosferatu. Don’t know why you’re showing a reflection just for me if you’re going to sneak that easily anyways.”</p><p>He took a surprised breath through his nose but lost his ability to speak when Richie turned, his Richie, in this house- this stupid L.A. bachelor pad, and smiled at him with all his wrinkles and stained teeth. Time had made them all so different but his Richie carried a special show of age. All the weathering and long silences that contemplation carved into him with a handsome youthfulness that would make him the perfect icon of a father.</p><p>Eddie didn’t have a snarky retort. He didn’t really know where he was at the moment, how he’d gotten so lucky to be here, but walked over to Richie with a frown still pulling at his long, scarred cheek. </p><p>His lover opened an arm and let him shuffle and press against him, into him. Richie held him securely in front of the gigantic window. They built these things for privacy; a large sparkling view that’s shaded from the outside. But it is glorious to feel on display while openly loving someone. Openly caring and being cared for. Eddie thinks of all the moments they can spend being blatantly obsessed with one another, in front of strangers and friends. The Losers know they’re in love, but they don’t know how soft and strong Richie’s hands are when he cups his shoulder to pull Eddie closer. The callousness of his palms that bring long healed over blisters to his hair, carding through it. They’ll never get to see Eddie smile and cry into this man’s broad chest as he revels in the feeling of flesh giving against the force of his body, Richie’s gut a loving third-party. </p><p>Here, the Clown is dead. </p><p>But if it were so easy. As they pull apart, Eddie knows Richie’s thinking it, and Eddie wishes he wouldn’t. There are a thousand times chances at this-- literally hundreds of thousands. Every universe is a little different. A little more fraught. A little more changed. More or less colourful. It’s hard enough for one to have their best friend and the love of their life both die within a gleeful week of each other. Entirely another for one to experience that over and over again.</p><p>Richie doesn’t tell him a lot but he cries at night. Moans low, small gasps, until the tears are pouring out in a stream. Eddie remembers it from Derry’s hospital when no one was sure when he exactly left his vegetated state, but he just laid there and listened and squinted at the world around him, rarely having the luxury like he has now to just sit there and openly watch. Richie’s paranoid about everything, too- obsessed with angel numbers, repetitions. Eddie wasn’t lucid for Mike and Bill’s parcel but he is still quite surprised the man didn’t go crazy and pummel the helium out of the balloons himself.</p><p>Everyday he is asleep in that bed, he is sure Richie crawls in and clutches him close. Sits in the corner seat and watches the bed feverishly for hours- just to make sure he never disappears. Which he can’t do. Eddie never really vanishes. And now that he knows the truth, the sluggish man’s mind sprints hard to consider every possible way he’d hold Richie, watch Richie, kiss Richie just to make sure <em> he </em> doesn't vanish. That they don’t melt into another timeline where they’re doomed to repeat a constantly destructive cycle. Only one of them aware that there was a restart at all.</p><p>“Want me to heat up some of that soup?” Richie’s gently massaging the back of his neck with one hand. He probably worked at pizza shops in many of his times; his kneading is pro. Also distracting.</p><p>Eddie smiles a little. “Am I such a disaster, you’re going to keep me on baby food for a year?”</p><p>“Maybe more.” Richie smiles back. “I’m sure the kitchen would appreciate it; I’ve been giving her <em>toooons</em>of attention now to take care of my pookiebear,” he coos saccharine. </p><p>He can’t shove him because his smile spreads faster, Eddie focusing on struggling it back as Richie smirks indulgently- and triumphantly. Laugh pressed to the back of his throat, he responds with, “just microwave some goddamn soup, Rich.”</p><p>He’s helped to the couch and lays there like he belongs. Because he does. Richie turns on the television for him, babies him, pulling on fuzzy socks for him so the cold floors don’t bother him too much. Layers an extra throw sheet over him so Eddie will feel held and warm even when Richie is 14 feet away in the kitchen. </p><p>Richie brings him some flavoured seltzer water and drops three cherries in just so Eddie can pretend it’s a Shirley Temple. The straw is metal and clinks against the ice. </p><p>Wrapped up and comfortable, he feels so loved and cared for. He likes it when Richie babies him. Has no memories from their childhood of anything but this sweetness, this servitude, being exploited or admonished by him. But he’s sure Richie does. Countless Eddie Kaspbrak’s, tiny and red cheeked and cantankerous. Ones that knew their power. And how could he blame them for relishing in it- abusing it? Even now, he can look up from the sheets at the man in the kitchen, washing dishes and preparing tea, and stare.</p><p>As if guided by the same instincts, Richie will look over and be there instantly. </p><p>A gentle hand on where his shoulder would be if the blanket wasn’t cocooning him. Eyes prepared for anything. “What’s up, babe? Need something?”</p><p>Eddie grunts, “I want to kiss you.”</p><p>That’s not a difficult task; Richie obliges him happily. Their lips mold together perfectly. Richie is scared to push too hard and cause pain. Eddie is too tired to put more energy into it. But, one of them does bite the other’s lip, moving seamlessly into the second phase where Eddie’s tongue takes a careful inventory of every tooth in Richie Tozier’s mouth, and all the other can do is crouch over him, neck at an awful angle, body triangular, and moan gleefully.</p><p>He sends Richie off with a smile and settles back in to stare at the program playing. Richie lingers. </p><p>“That’s really hot, you know,” he finally laughs and Eddie glances his way with a raised eyebrow. “What, surprised I like it when you get all baby and boss me with caveman demands? Don’t I exude that energy?”</p><p>“So you want me to interrupt you mid-menu reading at some restaurant and start demanding kisses?”</p><p>“I meeeeeeaaannn.” Richie’s blushing. But he’s unabashed. “If I get a meal before my entrée…”</p><p>Eddie rolls his eyes but doesn’t stop smiling, doesn’t risk looking at him because he loves the idea of power, ownership, public claims. It’s uncouth and perfect. “Draft up a contract and we can go through the logistics.”</p><p>Time passes by like that. Richie watching TV with him, standing by the couch as something cooks in the kitchen, a meeting happens on the laptop. Bending carefully over Eddie’s blanketed form to kiss slow and steady. Makes commentary that has Eddie hissing for him to <em> stop </em> because he can’t laugh too much it’ll pull his <em>stitches</em>.</p><p>It’s late afternoon. He’s been through two bowls of soup and Richie is much warmer than the blankets. Runs hot, If Eddie had been healthy- if his body wasn’t bent, twisted, cracked- he’d swing his leg over Richie’s lap and sit where he belonged. But his secret is hardly kept as Richie holds the back of his head, kissing him slow and deep. That he relishes this new weakness. This new tininess. The hands on him are so <em> so </em> careful and it makes him yearn for something harder. </p><p>He doesn’t let the thought consume him, though. Richie will always be more than enough. The simple domesticity of curling on the couch and kissing comforted the 30 years he’d spent locked away from himself and his body that cringed and wept, regretting everyday spent gathering self-hate and discomfort.</p><p>Eddie is watching News Bloopers on Richie’s fancy television when sleep smoothes over him, from his toes to his eyes, stretching languidly as time and reality dims into a pseudo-dream. </p><p>He knocks out.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Eddie floats into awareness. Like little bubbles, his thoughts break surface before his body follows, then the dull sense of pain shades in after that. </p><p> </p><p>The cartilage of his nose has ripped extensively, nearly halved from the punch. It was much worse than the blow to the back of his head from falling on the asphalt. Eddie barely remembers doing it, but he must have asked a nurse very feebly to apologise to the owners of Derry’s Dine-In for him because he got a small card back with well wishes and three coupons. </p><p>Waking up does not make him cry. With his face so extensively wrapped, he’s glad for it. Any extra pulling would have reenacted the powerful force of that punch in the snow all over again. </p><p>Not doing something doesn’t mean he didn’t want to.</p><p>Eddie wanted to sob. He felt like retching. He felt so small. The vestigial form of a man so self-assured, so positive and certain even in his brokenness. Who loved and was loved in return as openly as possible. But more than that was an overpowering urge to jump out of bed and see Richie.</p><p>Stan and Bill’s ‘get well soon!’ balloons were still floating in the corner of his well-lit hospital room. Goosebumps swept his skin from the cold temperature, and he stared at the darkened sky and snow-crested buildings just beyond inpatient care. He’s in a shitty hospital gown that scratches his skin irritable. </p><p>Is he here, in this exact room, whenever what happens- happens? Whatever fate lies in the future? </p><p>His mind is strangely clear. He has very few thoughts occupying him when he pushes himself up a little, legs over the low bars of his bed, and with shaking arms, presses his feet to too-cold tile. Wrenching an IV line out of his arm was a particular dramatic that suited the rabid mood lurking just under his skin but for now. </p><p>Eddie didn’t need the fuss. </p><p>He had to see Richie.</p><p>Luckily, the IV stand didn’t need to go with him out of the room. It must have been unattached at some point while he was knocked out. That left him with just his gown, his hazy wits, and his memory of Derry’s medical centre. </p><p>Somehow, even with all the hospital visits he’d endured, Eddie hadn’t memorised the specific layout of every floor.</p><p>The floor he was on had the nurse’s station parked near the entrance to his section. It was just on his right, so he was one of the first rooms. Broken nose, concussion and pre-existing conditions: Eddie didn’t think he was in Emergency’s, but he well could be. He’d been rushed there in an emergency. Pediatric was another possibility. It didn’t matter. Whichever ward he was on, Richie was sure to be on the same floor. Unless some major surgery was happening. The thought alone made Eddie feel sick, so he pressed on by keeping low and reading patient clipboard cards outside every door.</p><p>People were awake and at work. Diminutive, thin Eddie, with a loud personality and a body perfect for quickness. He’d press into shadows and go at a light run, feet arched to avoid the slap of his heels against the tile. Hell if Ms. Sonia Kaspbrak wasn’t right sometimes;</p><p>He was sneakier than a hell’s cat.</p><p>Tozier, Richie in room 637. The door was unlocked and he slipped in, silent as shadow, pressing between the slimmest crack he could make without having the door hinge’s creak.</p><p>The TV was on and the Toziers weren’t there. Eddie suspected they had lives that made it impossible to constantly dog hospital staff and sleep in the rooms. A blessing that his Mother already had it out for Rich; she was probably launching petitions everywhere to try and rally the boy into being expelled.</p><p>For his part, Richie seemed fine.</p><p>He was eating an arepa. Eddie could smell Maggie’s chicken soup lingering in the room. Unlike Eddie’s own lodgings, Richie only had one hospital light on and seemed more comfortable and relaxed in his current position. It was so perfect to see him… acting normally. Just another patient, just a kid ready to be discharged, enjoying his Mother’s food, hooked up to the IV, watching Carson. </p><p>Eddie saw Richie’s head move to the window and then the other teen startled, “shit!” abruptly, food flying out as he choked then coughed hard to whirl and face the ghost occupying his room from the position in bed.</p><p>Richie wheezed between hacks, “What the-- hrrk, fuck! What the fuc’re you,” hard cough, beating his own back, “doing here?!” He wiped his eyes; Eddie wondered if he was so pale against the surroundings that  Richie knew it was him in the window. The guy didn’t have his glasses on. They were on the counter nearest the room’s microwave.</p><p>Instead of answering, Eddie retrieved them and went to Richie’s bedside. They were triple taped and superglued into some horrible imitation of what spectacles should be.</p><p>There was silence between them after Richie got his specs on. Usually the trashmouth would get to itching and he’d break first but with a shaky breath, the smaller of the two spoke first.</p><p>“I know what’s been going on with you. Not everything but- enough.” Richie stares at him and snorts without breaking gaze, flat, unamused. He doesn’t mind it. He realises what he’s been doing. How he’s played into it successfully. And he’ll accept the parts of this problem that are on him, and he’ll accept the parts of Richie that are tired of trying, wickedly scared of hope. “And even if I hadn’t, if I wasn’t… I’m sorry.”</p><p>Eddie creeps his fingers to the bars of Richie’s hospital bed. “I’ve been really stupid and selfish. You have, too. But you’re doing it because... you're crazy." Rich looks like he wants to punch him. "And I’m doing it because I’m vindictive. And maybe also a little crazy. But neither of us have to be this mean. Especially me.”</p><p>“I’m like five seconds from buzzing the nurses, Eds.”</p><p>“I had a dream,” he continues steadily, “that we were living together in your apartment. It was in California.” He watches the complication of angles that constitute his Richie Tozier break into fear, sadness, shock, and settle on blank, wide-eyed rapt attention. “And something had happened to me. But you were there to help me. And I knew about everything.”</p><p>The two of them remain still for three minutes. Ads play and the show starts again on Richie’s clunky TV before Eddie tightens the hand on the hospital bar and leans closer to kiss the other’s arm. He doesn’t ignore the tenseness but it can’t be dealt with now. “Are your parents mad at me?”</p><p>Slow to speak, the other shakes his head. “They don’t get mad at you.”</p><p>Truthfully, the teen believes him. “I don’t know if I can see you before Christmas. So if I don’t,” he looks up at him. “I’m a chump.”</p><p>Richie doesn’t smile at him but just shrugs. Eddie remains close before slowly removing his hand, restoring Richie’s personal bubble. He doesn’t know where to go from here. He’s coming around to the idea of kissing and leaving when Rich pipes up, eyes on Carson as the Tonight Show returns from yet another ad break. “What’d we look like?” </p><p>He turns when Eddie doesn’t respond right away, the low lights and blue glow from the set striking a similar image to the dream. His eyes are sad. “In the dream. What did we look like?”</p><p>It was only moments ago but isn’t what’s messing things up. No, for Eddie, he can see it clearly now- can imagine the evolution and feels such a strong hunger to fill in every gap between Richie Tozier, the trashmouth teen, and Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier, the accomplished man. </p><p>“You had better glasses,” is the first thing he can think to say. Gratefully, Rich snorts. He continues, not daring to look away from the other. “You were tall. Taller. You had a widow’s peak and hairy arms. A hairy chest.” He can still feel the cotton under his fingers as he pushed a hand up the other’s stomach, playing idly in the curls that fanned from his crotch to his chest. “You had stubble. And man tits.”</p><p>The startled laugh broke his own reverie, watching Richie giggle openly and squint at him. “Fucking man tits?”</p><p>“Yeah, I mean, what am I supposed to say? They were kinda tit-like.”</p><p>“You slept with Stan, gave me a seizure, and admitted to clown-collusion but you can’t butter up the fact that I didn’t have fucking man tits?”</p><p>Eddie bristled. “Okay but I least I’m keeping in theme with telling the truth and fucking up!”</p><p>“So you’re consistently shitty?” Richie’s smiling at him. He’s smiling.</p><p>What can he say to that? Eddie lifts his chin and then dips his head in an empathetic nod. He looks back boldly; he’s still scared to look but also knows he can, he <em> can </em> if they get the chance, he can look. Openly. And be looked back in return. </p><p>He loves Richie. He’s loved him a million times and if he can figure out a way, a way for it to be possible, he’ll make sure he gets the chance to live and tell everyone. But for now, all the wispy kid can do is go to the door and say, “Goodnight, Richie.” </p><p>“Sweet dreams, Eds.”</p><p>He smiles. “You, too.”</p><p>"See you around?"</p><p>"With those glasses?" He snarks before he can help himself but shame quickly follows the bite. Richie, however, keeps smiling. The IV bulges under his skin but his middle finger seems proud and stiff. </p><p>Johnny Carson becomes a muffle but the eyes Richie gave him burn through the door, and follow Eddie down the hall, all the way back to his cold, empty hospital room. He closes his eyes and thinks about all the Christmases he wants to spend with the love of his life. Sleep welcomes him soundly. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>spoilers be below, scroll by fast to avoid </p><p>TO EXPLAIN EVERYTHING, HERE'S WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW:<br/></p><div>
  <p><br/>- richie getting caught in the deadlights basically has him as an element in It's game.<br/>- he's lived like 324052109 different versions of life, clicking in the middle of his 20s or having to start fresh as a flowershop owner in his 40s.<br/>(au commentary no shade, love aus, just sayin)<br/>- this version of richie is like, fed the fuck up and stays fed the fuck up. basically a 38 year old doomer stuck at 18/19.<br/>- eddie starts having dreams about dying (allusions to floating, sinking, throughout the chapters) and has a subconscious awareness of the timebending. the more fear, tension, and negativity that builds between he and rich, the more awareness creeps in.<br/>- eddie now knows a lot more of what's happening since he had the dream this chapter</p>
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